You Can Take the Boy Out of Brooklyn
by Kerrys2Boys
Summary: It is 2014 and Vanessa Hutchinson's reappearance into Hutch's life unsettles the two partners in more ways than they can anticipate. Vanessa's desperate bid to involve Starsky personally into her secret and dangerous activities plunges them both into a lethal nightmare and Starsky will be forced to revisit ghosts from his past. Hutchinson for Murder One Reboot alla 21st Century.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

**April 2014**

**Los Angeles**

Before he felt the pain, Starsky remembered the sounds.

They filled his head as soon as he opened his eyes. Sounds he'd not only heard but also felt as they crashed into him. So real were his memories of those sounds that, as he woke, he felt sure he was still hearing them.

He'd heard a scream, a shrill scream that ripped through his pounding head. Before that, pleading shrieks had echoed so clearly, he struggled even now to twist toward them.

Then he remembered the other sounds.

The ones that came just before the avalanche of pain. One deep and thick, a sickening thud of metal on bone and flesh, all squelch and crunch and guttural grunt. The distinctive acoustics of blunt force injury. Cruel and brutal.

Other noises had come just before the savage blow that knocked him out. They were just as violent, but tidier and compact, short sharp, whipping cracks. Like bullets released in rapid succession. His ears were still ringing from the resonance of that blast of gunfire.

Struggling to make sense of time and place, he turned his head to the side, and then quickly shut his eyes. He wasn't ready for the heart-stopping shock of what was next to him.

If this was a dream, a nightmare, then his pain shouldn't be so real, the sounds too would have faded. When he opened his eyes again, reality would shape up differently.

He sucked in a lungful of air and took another look, opening his eyes and squinting hard.

The reality was worse than any nightmare. It was lying beside him, just as it had been the first time he'd looked. A pair of wide-opened eyes, glassy and still, stared right at him.

A woman's eyes that were still beautiful even in death.

**Chapter One.**

**Three Days Earlier**

Starsky wondered what the hell was going on? He fixed his gaze on the wall behind the head of his bed. That wall had seen a lot of action go down on this bed and more so of late. Also of late, he'd been spending an inordinate amount of time focusing on that wall while he tried to force his body to do the job it was designed to do. The job it should have the decency to do when he was sharing his bed with a woman as sensual and willing as the one beneath him. In the shadowed light, he appraised her body and face objectively. She really was quite stunning - she had it all - everything he found sexually appealing in a female, and she was obligingly wrapping every bit of that appeal around him as they lay tangled on the bed. .Petite and yet well rounded in all the places that mattered, her sensual appearance was coupled with a healthy appetite for vigorous sex.

Squeezing his eyes closed then quickly reopening them, Starsky half expected that instead of the dancing night shadows he and his lover made, he'd see an emblazoned WTF glaring at him.

_WTF exactly..._

Well, the bedroom wall would just have to wait for an answer. He sure as hell didn't have one. In fact, he didn't have a lot of a lot of things lately, and the answer to that particular question was just one of them. Right now, he was sadly lacking in what it took to give his writhing lover what she was crying out for. Her throaty moans of "Give it to me now, Dave," were doing nothing to inspire his less-than-hard cock.

Since when did David Starsky suffer from soft-cock syndrome? That just didn't happen to him. His sexual repertoire had always been varied and plentiful but never had a soft cock been part of it. He couldn't recall it ever being an issue. Not until the last two months, anyway. Since then, his slow-to-warm-up symbol of manhood - in spite of the company of a procession of beguiling women - was becoming an alarming habit.

Maybe that was why he was trying harder to stay with this woman a little longer than just a couple of dates. Explore the potential they might have together.

Yeah, sure. He could almost hear the bed head creaking with laughter along with the wall at that shoddy piece of self-denial.

Okay - so he had nothing but the shallowest intentions toward this woman - sexy, nimble and hot blooded as she might be.

If he was honest, he was using her as a distraction like all the other women he had bedded in recent weeks. To pull him away from the self-indulgent fantasies he could no longer resist, and the hopes he feared would forever be unrealized.

Another purr beneath him and a forceful scratch from her long set of nails spurred him into action. Her smooth hand closed beseechingly on his semi-erect cock. He jumped at her touch. Suddenly, he needed to finish this lukewarm session before it turned stone cold.

If he wanted to perform for his lover, he'd have to do what he'd done several times before. Shifting his inner focus, he let his imagination take over, giving in to the sensual images in his head. Closing his eyes to shut out the distraction of feminine flesh and silky thighs, his mind took him to a different place, the same bed, the same physical setting, but with a different body. The body that electrified his senses, driving the blood to his cock and pitching his lust to a fever point. Within moments, he felt the reassuring heat in his groin; his breath hitched as the fantasy dragged him toward orgasm.

Growling now with fresh hot need, he reached too roughly to roll the pliant body over, urging her quickly to her knees. Forcefully, he dragged her rounded ass toward him. He had the grace to look at the bed head and wall where his own damning jury of self-recrimination perched from its vantage point. Watching him, condemning him, while he conjured up the glorious feast in his mind. A long-limbed golden body, hard and muscled, smooth and damp with sweat and pre-come, pushed against his groin, inviting him, insisting he plunge deeper and harder into its tight warm flesh. Then, with the fantasy exploding in his head, he was finally able to give the woman beneath him what she'd been asking for. Her escalating cries and soft laughter told him he was finally fulfilling her needs as well as his own.

Later, spent and drained, he rolled his sweat-slicked body off hers, collapsing heavily beside her. He lay panting, the cries from her exuberant orgasm ringing in his ears. Half-listening to her talk, already beginning to doze, he jolted when she ran her nails through his damp chest hair, giving him a sex-glazed smile.

"Oh my God, Dave," she said, panting. "You sent me over the edge three times! That's a personal best for me!"

'Personal Best.' Jesus. What is this? A competition?

What was she rating here? Him? His performance? His caliber as a lover, a stud?

Alarming images of his sexual exploits being plastered all over her Facebook page filled his head.

Shit.

He could almost see her post, a graphic depiction on her Facebook wall, maybe with a liberal dash of winking emoticons flashing beside the entry, peppered with anagrams and tawdry comments.

"Spent another night with the cop I've been seeing... OMG, he might be slow to warm up but once his engine heated up he sure went the distance and sent me flying."

Wanting to groan at the thought of his bedroom prowess (or lack thereof) becoming social media fodder, he summoned up his best crooked smile and ran his finger lazily around her still-tight nipple. He could feel his body starting to fade with the aftermath of the marathon. "Glad to be of service, Ma'am."

The first pull of post-coital pleasure tugged at him, a sense of floating somnolence as he lay where he had fallen across the bed, imagining another scene where he settled down beside the long hard form of his equally spent lover.

His flickering eyes tracked to the wall again. If the woman beside him weren't so wide-awake and watching him intently, he would have given the wall the finger. Let it know that he still had the famous Starsky endurance, even if he needed to be kick-started by his secret lust-filled fantasies.

She leaned in close, nuzzling him. She wanted more.

He would have told her he had no more to give, but he fell asleep before he heard her sigh in disappointment.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The sounds and light coming from the closed bathroom door penetrated his sleep. It took him a few moments to come back to the present. His hand brushed through a wet spot beside him and that, with the scent of perfume and fresh sex, reminded him that he had company - company who was still in his bathroom.

Why the hell couldn't women just roll over and go to sleep like men did? This constant need to get up, shower, and preen before slipping back into bed annoyed him tonight more than it normally would.

She came out of the bathroom and crawled in beside him. Her smooth legs wrapped around his heavily haired ones in a sinuous twist. The warm water vapors still wafted around her. As she leaned over to stroke his chest, her bare breasts lightly brushed his shoulder. "Hey, you're awake. Good. I was hoping you hadn't crashed for the night."

"Only half awake," he corrected, knowing it to be a lie. If anything he felt so tense that he had considered taking a cigarette out onto his beachside balcony and blowing out the left over frustration in his lungs. "Heard you in the shower. I guess it woke me up."

"You could have come in and joined me. I was lonely in there - but now you're awake; we can snuggle." The purr of her silky voice was an irritant in his ear.

A thick sweep of golden blonde hair was in his face as she molded herself to his side, her lips brushing against his stubbled cheek. He pulled back enough to communicate his disinterest. He could sense that she felt it.

He conjured up some explanation to ease the bite of his rejection. "Sorry - I'm wiped. Need to get up early in the morning."

"Oh?" Her disappointment was heavy in that one word, and he felt his guilt rise. Still, he couldn't feign something that wasn't inside him.

Undeterred, she reached over and pulled his hand against her face, threading their fingers together. "I was hoping we could just lie here for a while - and talk."

"Look - ah - look Cla - ah - honey -"

For one panicked moment, he could not remember her name, and almost slipped by calling her the name he'd been trying hard to forget for weeks now. With her face half hidden in the curtain of her hair, he couldn't be sure she had caught his stumble with her name. Frantically, he sifted his mind for a clue to spark his memory. The names of women who had shared his bed over the past month or more since Clare had exited his life, came to mind. However, none matched the face in front of him.

Shit, this is bad.

What kind of a bastard was he? He couldn't even think of her name, and he had just screwed her? And then to make it worse, he had come close to calling her the name of his last lover.

All at once, the bed seemed too small, her proximity too close, and his own his nakedness too intimate. Rolling to the side, he swung his legs over the bed and leaned down to retrieve his jeans from the floor.

"Dave, what's wrong?"

"Nothin's wrong..." and then it came to him, "Lydia." He added her named smoothly, hoping she hadn't picked up on his earlier lapse.

The recall of her name occurred at the same time that he realized he was already over her. Already over himself, and this repeated situation of casual sexual interludes. "I told you, I'm beat, and I need to get some sleep. Let's just - "

He levered himself into his snug jeans commando style and headed for the bathroom, acutely aware of her eyes following him as he fled.

Using the john and splashing his face with water, he took a little time to collect himself before going back into the bedroom, wishing that he didn't have to face a needy woman. The flashing light on his cell phone caught his attention as he walked back to the bed. Absently, he checked the missed call.

It was Hutch's number and he'd rung twice in quick succession about twenty minutes earlier.

Lydia watched him frowning at the cell phone. "It rang before when you were asleep."

"Why didn't you wake me?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, but he heard the irritation in his voice.

"Why would I wake you?"

"Because I'm a cop, for Christ sake, and cops get called."

"You let the calls go other times - I've seen you. You can always call back. What's the big deal?"

"It was my partner." He said it as if that was all she needed to know. The flitting of quick resentment across her face displeased him more than her not waking him.

"I know that," she said. Short, emphatic. "I recognized his ringtone. Hell, I should know it by now," she said with a scowl that he didn't miss. "That's why I didn't wake you. It's just a social call anyway."

"What the hell do you mean by that? You knew it was Hutch, and you left it? Hutch doesn't call at two a.m. for no damn reason at all." Part of him knew he was being unreasonable but the condemnation was there anyway.

Hitting the callback, he listened to Hutch's cell ring, and then turned away from Lydia when he heard Hutch's quiet voice. "Starsk?" The way Hutch said his name already had him worried.

"Hey, what's up? I just saw you called about twenty minutes ago. Is everything okay?" Even as he said it, he knew it was a stupid question. Of course it wasn't, he'd already heard it in the tentative nuance of his name.

"You're - you've got company?" Hutch's flat response was filled with disappointment, and Starsky could hear the need creeping down the phone.

"It doesn't matter. Is everything okay with you?" he repeated.

"Starsky... I shouldn't have called you this late. I rang before I realized the time and remembered you were seeing someone tonight - I'm sorry."

"You sound terrible," Starsky said, brushing off Hutch's apology, more worried about the way his friend sounded and what was behind the call. "You sick? You want me to come over?"

"No - no, not sick. I'm fine. No - " Hutch paused, took a breath. "I'm not fine. Shit. Look, it's okay - really. Go back to bed. We'll talk in the morning. I shouldn't have woken you. You know me. I have this reflex habit of calling you whenever -" His voice trailed off.

"You didn't wake me, okay? Now help me out here, because I can hear something's not right. Tell me now or I'll come anyway."

Hutch paused, and then finally blurted, "It's Van."

"Van? Your Vanessa?" The mention of Hutch's unlikeable ex-wife was something Starsky hadn't expected.

"Yeah - my Vanessa, if you want to call her that."

"You know there's a lot of things I could call Vanessa, but I'm just tryin' to cut to the chase here, partner. Is she - she - okay?" The level of quiet distress in Hutch's voice continued to concern Starsky.

"She's okay. Well, at least she is now. I'm the fuck-up when it comes to her." Hutch sounded desolate.

Starsky reached for his shirt and scanned the room for his Adidas. Noting the time on his wristwatch, he pinned the cell phone between chin and shoulder as he shrugged into the shirt and pushed his foot into the shoe. "I'm comin' now. Should be able to get there in a few minutes at this time of night." Since he'd moved to the beaches close to Hutch's Venice apartment, it made situations like this so much easier for them both. Neither of them missed the races across town through traffic to get to the other's place if there was some pressing need to get there fast. Uncertain why exactly, Starsky only knew that Hutch's sad tone immediately qualified this as one of those times. He couldn't stand to hear his partner sound so low, and the need to get to him as soon as he could was strong.

"I - I - " If Hutch was about to protest, his intention fell away with a relieved sigh. "That'd be good, Starsk. I feel like, well - I just want to see you." He finished, whatever else he might have said left unspoken.

"Hey, Hutch?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever it is we'll work it out, okay?"

"Where Vanessa is involved, I don't think I'll ever get it worked out," Hutch said helplessly.

Hutch's dejection had Starsky ramming his phone into his front jeans pocket and cursing his partner's ex-wife. He turned to meet an accusatory glare from Lydia.

"You just got through telling me that you were tired and needed sleep," she said with a touch of snipe. "And now you're getting dressed?" She was sitting up, the sheets pulled up to her breasts as though now that she was pissed with him, she was no longer going to allow him to see them.

"I'm sorry, but I need to go."

"You mean to tell me you're leaving? Leaving me here?" She seemed astounded. Starsky couldn't be sure whether she was genuinely surprised by the fact, or incredulous that he would go.

"Lydia, you heard most of that conversation so you must realize I'm worried about Hutch. Something's happened, and I want to go check on him." He was a little brusque, but he was annoyed with her dumb act when he knew she had heard what he'd said to Hutch.

"But it's the middle of the night! And we - we-" she blustered a little before trying to make him see reason. "Why the hell would you need to go over there now when he's just upset? Can't you leave it till tomorrow?"

There was little point in trying to explain it to her - his and Hutch's connection - and he found he had no interest in doing so. He shouldn't have to explain it to her. He rarely attempted to explain it to anyone.

"You can stay here; spend the rest of the night. If you'd lock the door behind you, that'd be great. There's fresh milk in the fridge for coffee." He strapped on his holster, grabbed his jacket and wallet, and bounced his keys in his hand. Mentally he was already out the door and on his way.

Lydia had different ideas. "You're seriously going to walk out on me in the middle of the night?" Now she was angry.

"Honey, I've already given you all I had in me for tonight." And anything else we had is well and truly over.

She didn't need to hear that last thought, so he pulled back from hurting her with it. He kept that locked inside the hardened center of him where he stored all his bitter resentment. She didn't deserve to get the backlash of his recent pain.

"You're treating me as if all we had between us was sex." There was anger and hurt in her voice. He knew he was coming across like a heel, but she was pushing his buttons.

Midway into shrugging on his jacket, Starsky stopped and sighed. "Lydia, don't complicate this. We've seen each other what - two, three times - "

"Three weeks. We've been seeing each other for three weeks." She said it as though the time represented some sort of attainment.

"Look. I've said I'm sorry. We've had a good time. Can't we just leave it at that? I've really got to go. Hutch is waiting..." Starsky felt impatient. He should already be on his way.

"Of course..." She sat back in the bed, defeated but not surprised. Her face had a petulant look.

"What the hell does that mean?" He felt immediately defensive.

"Your tone changes completely when he calls. It's no bother to go running over there in the middle of the night. But you can't take the time to do the right thing in our relationship." She spat the words at him.

She had breached his level of tolerance as soon as she made a judgment call on his loyalty to Hutch. "That's it. I'm outta here. Either stay or go. Don't matter to me. But let's get one thing straight. We don't have a 'relationship'. We have sex. You wanted it; so did I. And it was nice. But now I've got other priorities. Don't make this into somethin' more."

Her slap cracked him hard across the cheek. The shock fuelled his anger, and he pulled back in surprise. Turning, he started to leave.

She railed at him. "You selfish, self-centered prick! I'm over your haughty hard cop act. You think I enjoyed sleeping with someone who looked bored most of the time, and has trouble getting it up?"

At the bedroom door, Starsky stopped and walked back. Without a word, he picked up her clothes, shoes, and bag. Striding to the bathroom, he flung everything inside the door. "Get up. Get dressed. Get out." She had gone too far; if he didn't leave soon, he would say more to her than he should.

Snatching the sheet from the bed, she twisted it around her nakedness and stormed into the bathroom.

She was out of the bathroom quickly, dressed in record time, yet he was still impatient as he waited at the apartment door.

She walked right up to him, so close he could see the fire in her eyes. "Go - run off to your partner. I hope he wants you, because you sure as hell don't deserve me!"

He let her sweep away with a blaze of hurt and resentment lingering in her wake, and wasted no time in using the fire escape stairs to descend to the apartment block's garage. With quick strides, he crossed the garage floor toward his motorcycle with Lydia's last words in his head.

She was right, of course. He didn't deserve her. He couldn't disagree with that. But it was the first part of her sentence that stuck in his head. In fact, it had been stuck in his head for a long time now.

The part about hoping that Hutch wanted him.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The heated exchange with Lydia cut into him. He wasn't proud of how he had been with her, but guiltily, he also knew his mind was already elsewhere - worrying about Hutch. Donning his motorcycle helmet and unlocking the chain, he threw his leg astride his silver 2012 Ducati road bike. Cranking the bike up and controlling the throttle released some of his tension. By the time the motorcycle roared up the main beach road, he could feel the knot that had been inside him since his call to Hutch unravel just a little, the speed and air on his face calming him.

He'd purchased the Ducati at the same time he'd found his apartment in Santa Monica. The guy selling the older 70's apartment had the Ducati in the garage when Starsky went to scout out the parking facilities for his prized red 2011 Mustang. He fell in love with the motorcycle at the same time he fell in love with the ocean-side apartment. Starsky liked to call the bike the 'Silver Beast'. Hutch liked to call it the 'Silver Death Threat' and was never happy with Starsky opening up the engine on the open roads. Modes and styles of transport was a constant bone of contention between them. Hutch had an aversion to riding anything that didn't include a full metal frame and seat belts.

At two-thirty a.m. he had the road to himself and made short work of getting to Venice Place. Parking his bike alongside Hutch's latest junkyard car - yet another amorphous beige/brown/tan/rust Ford ensemble from the turn of the twenty-first century - Starsky held his helmet under his arm and headed to the door.

Leaning against the buzzer, Starsky pushed his flattened curls off his forehead. What had Hutch so agitated? Why was Vanessa coming back into his life after all this time?

When he heard the soft click of the electronics, he pushed open the door and took the stairs two at a time. He wasn't surprised to find Hutch's door ajar. Waiting for Starsky's arrival.

Hutch was sitting bathed in the half-light of a table lamp. The muted glow picked out the metallic in his hair, a different spectrum from the pure white blondness that the natural light of day brought out. In the subdued light, his close beard and moustache (more like a heavy five o'clock shadow than beard) looked darker than its usual dirty blond, creating a contrast with the halo of lightness around his head.

Hutch had been wearing the short beard for over a month now, but Starsky was still getting adjusted to the closely trimmed goatee and moustache. It was so shortly cropped that Starsky had taken to taunting him about simply having forgotten to shave. Despite his ribbing however, Starsky liked the layering the darker facial hair gave to Hutch's character. It provided just enough disparity with the dramatic white blondness to save Hutch from classic masculine beauty. Not that it was ever Hutch's intention to avoid this; Starsky knew his partner was largely unaffected by his own physical beauty. However, the facial hair lent him just enough of a grittier edge to distract the beholder from what would otherwise be faultlessly, breathtaking good looks.

He looked up when Starsky walked in, and despite the warm pleasure on his face at seeing his friend, Starsky didn't miss the deep groove of his vertical forehead frown line - a sure sign that Hutch was in a deep funk. There was a nearly finished bottle of Corona in his hand and three empties lined up on the table. Two wine glasses and an empty bottle littered the table as well, one of them tainted with a lipstick smudge. It didn't take much to figure out who'd been sharing a drink with Hutch. The social symbolism of the shared wine suggested a degree of civility at least to Hutch's ex-wife's visit.

Scanning the familiar living areas of the apartment, Starsky could see nothing out of the ordinary - no signs of a fight or a physical tantrum.

Unlike the exterior of Venice Place, which still retained many features of its original architectural charm, the apartments had been modernized to a certain extent. However, the polished wood floors, plush rugs, plastered walls, and country kitchen all helped keep it casual and relaxed like Hutch preferred. It was just the right balance of homey and modern, masculine and comfortable. Whenever Starsky walked into the small apartment, he thought instantly of "home" in the true sense of the word.

"Beer in the fridge," Hutch said without getting up. It was as good an opening as any, given the drawn look on his face.

"Bit late for beer," Starsky said, "but what the hell?"

He tossed the helmet on a chair and shed his leather jacket before walking toward the small kitchen. Enough street light illuminated Hutch's small, semi-covered terrace that he could see everything seemed as it should be out there also. No broken pots or upturned planters. Hutch's pride and joy, his beloved plants, seemed to be all intact.

Starsky knew he was thinking the worst, his less than charitable opinion of Vanessa coming into play - imagining her having gone on a rampage, smashing pot plants at random and hurling them dangerously at Hutch's head.

Returning with two fresh beers, he levered off his bottle cap and threw the opener on the table. Sinking heavily onto the far end of the couch, Starsky took a closer assessment of his partner. "So, I'm here."

"So, you are. What did you leave behind to get here?" Hutch's smile was soft and Starsky heard the two separate messages in his few words. The relief that Starsky was now at his side and the guilt he felt at having needed him there.

"Nothing of note. She's gone now." It was the truth, not said purely to lessen Hutch's guilt. "I didn't leave a good impression. She called me haughty and hard." Starsky considered his own words before taking a long slug of frosty beer and then another straight after.

"You've been excelling at leaving that sort of impression for a while now. Too long. Haughty and hard isn't your normal way, Starsk." Hutch frowned with worry. "You need to look at what that's about, buddy."

"Maybe. Perhaps." Starsky thought about it as he drank more beer and made an attempt at self-derogatory humor. "Not sure about the 'hard' bit though. I can tell you, Hutch, I was anything but earlier tonight. It's getting more and more difficult for me to come to the party for these self-absorbed bitches."

Hutch winced at the caustic note in Starsky's voice, and looked at him. "'Self-absorbed bitches?' You sure it isn't the other way around? You've been pretty self-absorbed yourself for a while now." He bumped his foot against Starsky's calf. "You ever thought, Starsky, that screwing a string of women could have something to do with why you can't get a hard-on at command? Maybe your dick is just plain worn out, partner. What number was this one?"

"Number? Shit, I don't know. I could barely remember her damn name. Don't matter anyway. She's gone. Pissed off that I left her when she wanted some deep and meaningful afterglow chat. Jesus - women."

Another swallow of the beer and he poked Hutch's leg with his foot. "Now - enough about my sexual conquests, what about you, buddy?"

Hutch snorted into his beer and shook his head "Sexual conquests? More like sexual minefield. The rate you're going, you'll have screwed every woman in a twenty-mile radius of Santa Monica by next month, and every one will be an unmitigated disaster. Don't you think it's time you take yourself off the one-night-stand circuit, and look at why you're doing what you're doing to yourself and every woman you meet?"

"Hey, I'm thirty-six-years old, for Chris' sake, and in the sexual prime of my life. Why shouldn't I play wild for a while?" Starsky had heard this same spiel from Hutch several times over the past couple of weeks. It was getting harder to deflect Hutch's penetrative comments and his constant fault finding with his wayward behavior.

"I'm glad you used the word 'wild'." Hutch said with a stern face and a jabbing index finger. "By the time you're thirty-seven you'll have either killed yourself with too much fucking, smash and burn on that two-wheeled silver death machine, or smoke yourself to death with those daily packs of cigarettes you think I don't know you suck behind my back."

Starsky pushed Hutch's wagging digit aside. "Oh, come on, Hutchinson, that's rich. You talking to me about gratuitous sex? And your problems with the Ducati are just your hang-ups about motorcycles. I'm no more likely to die on it than speeding in my car and you know it. And who are you to talk about lapsing into smoking? I can remember plenty of times I've been on your case for falling back into the nicotine habit."

Hutch sagged back on the couch and looked defeated. "Very sporadically and you know that. You've been hard on the cigarettes for weeks and weeks now. It's not like you're just having a smoke here and there with a coffee. I can already hear it in your breath when we run up the stairs - and the other day when you tried to chase that loser down the alley near - "

"Hutch!" Starsky interjected, cutting off his tirade. "Seriously. Forget worrying about the smoking, will ya? It'll pass."

"It's not just the heavy smoking, Starsky. I don't like watching you grind yourself down over another bitter experience with a woman, so you can prove to yourself that all women are like Clare. Hurting them doesn't change what she did to you-"

"No." Starsky cut in firmly again. "We are not making this about Clare." Starsky was determined not to let Hutch turn this into another therapy session. "Not now. Not now, okay?" It came out with a desperate edge; he hated hearing the weakness in his voice. "Besides, it's not just because of Clare," he admitted. "I'm just in a bad space at the moment."

"Then why don't you share some of that space with me? Don't you think it would be better than what you're doing to yourself?" Hutch rationalized gently.

Starsky felt uneasy. These sorts of introspective conversations with Hutch were becoming too dangerous for him. Hutch was edging closer, every time, to the issues that Starsky knew were at the root of his recent emotional turmoil, and it was becoming more difficult to hide the truth from his insightful partner.

"Listen, you think I rode over here at nearly three a.m. to hear you lecture me about my aberrant lifestyle? Hell, I could've just waited 'til morning for that. You'd start on me as soon as you climbed into the front seat - as you usually do every morning," he snapped, hoping to deter Hutch.

"Starsky-"

"Look, shelve it, will ya?" Starsky yelled and quickly modulated his voice. "Hutch, I don't want to talk about all of that same shit again. I'm not here because of me. Or damned Clare. I'm here, buddy, because you called me, remember?"

Hutch looked contrite and backed off. "I know that. Still I can't help being worried about you, and what you're doing to yourself. I promise to shut up about it from here on in - or try to at least." He reached out and patted Starsky's thigh affectionately. "I'm glad you're here. Did I tell you that yet?" He smiled fondly at Starsky.

That was all it took for Starsky to lose his anger. "You sounded like hell on the phone. I didn't like the idea of leavin' ya' alone." Now that the spotlight was off him, he could relax again. He felt sorry for lashing out at his friend.

Hutch rubbed at his temples, letting his long lean body slide down further on the couch. "I'm glad because I didn't feel like being alone..."

"So let's have it. Vanessa paid you a late night visit? Well, at least she seemed to have spared trying to make you wear creeping ivy and a pot of fertilizer on your head. I seem to remember another time when - " Starsky brought himself up short and peered at Hutch's profile, his mouth tightening. "Wait just a moment. What the fuck is that?"

In the soft light falling across Hutch's cheek, Starsky saw raised red skin and the dotted line of dried blood that ran into his beard. Even beneath his facial hair, the vivid scratch was hard to miss. Starsky leaned across the couch and gently grasped Hutch's chin, turning it even more toward the light.

Hutch pushed Starsky's probing hands away, and jammed his beer bottle in his mouth.

Starsky sat back, his eyes narrowed. "This where you tell me you cut yourself shavin' again? Not that you do all that much shavin' these days," Starsky said, the accusation made softer by his touch on Hutch's jaw.

"It's nothing," Hutch muttered as he ducked his head.

"Oh, it's somethin' alright. It tells me a lot. So I see she's still wearin' those long talons she loves to flash around, particularly in your direction."

Hutch looked down at his lap, the defeated hopelessness on his face so characteristic of how Starsky so often saw him in the early years of their friendship, when Hutch was still married to Vanessa. Starsky had always been shocked by how that woman could affect his strong partner, as though her very presence demeaned and disempowered him.

Starsky took a moment to collect two more beers before returning to the couch, this time perching opposite his friend. Touching Hutch lightly on the knee, he finally got him to look up. "So what's goin' on, buddy? What went down with you and her tonight that's got you so upset?"

Hutch accepted the fresh beer and frowned at the cold bottle. "She just walked back into my life, Starsk. Just like that. Knocked on my door at around ten and walked right in. No phone call, no email - not that she'd even know my contact details - just showed up in person. Said she'd just arrived on the late evening flight from New York. Caught a taxi straight here from the airport. God. She was just standing there. Standing there looking like she always looked. I tell you, it just rocked me." He fingered the deep scratch unconsciously.

Starsky was worried by the confusion and self-doubt creeping into Hutch's face. "So she just arrives here for no apparent reason, after what - it must be five years since the marriage ended, isn't it?" Even to him, Starsky's blunt question sounded too pragmatic - but any attempts at sensitivity regarding Vanessa were impossible for him. For Hutch's sake, he'd have to tone down his natural antipathy toward the ex Mrs. Hutchinson.

"Actually, she tells me it's been four years, six months, and twelve days. How do you like that? She had it down to the exact day." Hutch looked thoughtful.

It failed to impress Starsky, but he merely shrugged. Hardly like Vanessa to have been counting the days since she lost her loved one - since she was the one who single-handedly destroyed the marriage. She'd severed her commitment to Hutch, rejecting her young cop husband for, it seemed to Starsky, all the wrong reasons. The memory of what Hutch went through in those first weeks after she'd left him could still make Starsky's blood boil.

So, no, he didn't believe for a moment that Vanessa had come back in some love-frosted sentimental moment to re-unite with her one true love.

Clearly Vanessa had other motives.

Trying to keep his bias out of the equation, he prompted his friend to continue. "And so? Is there a reason she sought you out? After all, how did she know you were living here now?"

"Van's a smart girl. She might not have had my phone number or email, but she found out where I was living." He looked around his small homey apartment and smiled ruefully. "I don't think she was too impressed with my humble abode - probably even a notch down from the canal cottage that she also despised."

"Hey whata' you talkin' about - Venice Beach is damn prime real estate now, and you happen to live in just about the trendiest street. Gentrified zones add a lot of worth to property, and this street is a prime example of it. Does she know how much real estate goes for around here these days? Jeez, you're a veritable property tycoon, Hutch."

"Starsk - I rent, remember?" Hutch rolled his eyes, but Starsky was pleased his comments brought a small smile. "I'm not the one who went out on a limb for a mortgage. Anyway it's hardly what Vanessa is used to, and this small apartment is too bohemian for her standards."

"So what? Who cares what she thinks? That's her problem, not yours. It's not as though your station in life has changed so much in the past five years that you can afford to live in Beverly Hills. What did she expect on a sergeant's income? A penthouse?"

"Oh, I think she expected that I might have finally relented and cashed in some of my trust fund and be living the high life. Maybe she thought I'd have grown out of playing the role of struggling street cop with my scruffy longhaired sidekick. Mind you, she hardly seemed surprised when I told her I was still partnered with you." Hutch paused and looked at Starsky directly. "In fact, I got the feeling she expected it."

"Hey, mind your mouth there. I might be a little longhaired for a GQ cover shot, but I ain't scruffy. You're the one with the facial hair confusion, not me."

"Facial hair confusion, Starsky?" Hutch shook his head. "Where did you coin that term from?"

" 'S like ya' can't quite decide whether to grow a beard or not. I'm clean-shaven and smooth. You, on the other hand, look like you've just misplaced your razor every morning. Also, for your information, these jeans are fresh on yesterday, and that motorcycle jacket over there is one hundred percent Italian leather - made in Milan. That's the fashion capital of the world, in case you don't know." Starsky followed his comments up with a kick to Hutch's leg.

Hutch snorted into his bottleneck, and Starsky was pleased to see that he seemed more relaxed. "Oh, you mean the jacket that you picked up for a song at the local Saturday market from Lou Pattini's cousin. The one who runs the pizza stand at the markets and is always peddling other merchandise because his pizzas don't sell. And, he probably got it off eBay before that..." He smirked and then stopped. "God, Starsky. I just had a thought... Wait 'til Van finds out you tear around on a motorcycle as well as a revved up hot rod..."

"You think she'll finally see what she's failed to appreciate about me? That I'm so much more than she ever pegged me for? Fast, furious, and classy?"

"Ahhh..." Hutch pretended to take the time to think. "No."

"No?"

"Maybe fast and furious - but you can forget the classy bit."

The comic relief lasted only a second before the lightness left Hutch's face. "I don't know what she wants from me, Starsk. Two hours she was here. The first hour it was - well, it was good. Good enough, I guess. We talked, shared some wine, and found some common ground to explore. Managed not to argue or bite at each other - oh, for at least that first hour." Once more, he reached up to touch his jaw and throat, the vivid scratch a personification of her presence. "Then, by the end, we were back to how we always were."

Like she always was, Starsky thought. Back to being the cold-hearted bitch with a sharp temper and flying hands. Once again he reserved comment, and waited for Hutch to go on. He knew there was more. Something had caused the distress he heard in his partner's voice on the phone.

"She says I never loved her," Hutch said softly. "Never understood her. Never tried to see her perspective, how she felt being married to a man who chose a profession that put his life on the line every day. Never thought about what it would do to her if I died. Said I'd dragged her out to California, away from everything she loved and valued, and tried to force her to adopt my chosen lifestyle, my dreams. That I simply pushed her needs to the side in pursuit of my own. I was brash, she said, full of myself, selfish - and too young to appreciate how destructive it was to our marriage."

He stood and walked toward the kitchen, then turned and came back. "For the first time tonight - with the distance of all the pain and anger we went through behind us - I thought about what she said, Starsky. I heard what she said, like I hadn't heard it five years ago, or hadn't wanted to hear it then. And, even though she's still resentful about it and angry toward me for doing it to her - I started to hear what she was saying."

The pain was back in his face, the lightness of their shared banter already losing out to guilt. Hutch allowed guilt to get the upper hand with him too often, so Starsky knew what was coming.

"Hutch," Starsky said when Hutch seemed to finally wind down. "You've been through all this with her before. It's the same agenda, the same accusations. Vanessa's lifestyle choices against yours. She left of her own accord. She made the decision to leave you so she could get all those things she so desperately thought she had to have to make her life complete. None of this is new for you. Her unexpected visit has just taken you off guard."

"But it is new, Starsky. It's new, because now I think maybe I was too immature, too hell-bent on my cop career to see what I was asking her to give up. I always thought she was the selfish one. Maybe... Maybe it was me. Could be that she's right."

"Right about what? You were right about following your dreams to be a cop. Don't you get the chance to make yourself happy and complete in your own way?"

"Starsky..."

"No - just shut up, will ya'? You think I don't know what you went through with her? You think your ex-wife is justified in the way she treated you because you created a new life for the two of you? If your plans for life didn't match hers then the time to do something about it was before she put your ring on her finger. She chose to marry you, and then, when it didn't go her way, she ditched you." Starsky could feel his cold resentment rising as he remembered how Vanessa destroyed Hutch's confidence. "Didn't just ditch you, buddy - she damn near annihilated you. Now, one late-night visit makes you believe it was your fault her life didn't turn out how she planned. That's bullshit!"

"You always saw the worst in her," Hutch said despondently.

Vanessa Hutchinson's worst, in Starsky's estimation, was how she dismantled her husband. That was the thing he could not forget. "And you were always blinded by the best in her. You still are."

"What does that mean?" Hutch asked, defensively.

"I think you know, Hutch," Starsky said quietly. "She still as attractive as ever? As glamorous, stylish, and classy? She still got the moves to twist you up in knots?"

"You think I'm seduced by her appearance?" Hutch's tone was challenging.

"You're only human, buddy."

"Starsky, if you were anyone else, I'd take you down for that comment."

"Why? It's a statement, not a judgment." And yet Starsky knew in many ways it was just that, and he felt bad for needing to clarify something for himself.

"I didn't sleep with her," Hutch snapped, "if that's what's worrying you."

Starsky looked down at his hands quickly, hoping that Hutch didn't pick up the relief flickering across his face.

"Not talkin' about that, Hutch. I'm talkin' about seductive ways, not just in the sexual arena. She's pulled you in again. One short visit and she's got you doubtin' yourself and carrying a heavy load of guilt. That's her forte."

"Well, I sure can't make anything better for her now," Hutch said, looking upset. "She's sick, Starsk."

The 'Ah-Ha' moment finally hit Starsky. So this was why he got the SOS from Hutch at two in the morning. "What are we talking about here?"

"She's in LA for tests and possibly a procedure. They found some sort of breast lump. When she found out, her boyfriend left. Just didn't want to deal with it." Hutch was sitting down again and looking at Starsky like he was trying to measure his reaction.

Starsky chewed the inside of his mouth. He tried to say something safe. "That's tough for her. Sounds like she's well rid of the creep."

"Sure, but it leaves her floundering. She seemed so scared. Alone." There was wistful sympathy in his voice, and Starsky was again worried about how deeply Hutch was affected by what sounded like one of Vanessa's performances.

"And that's why she's come to you? Because she lost her boyfriend?" Starsky asked, trying for neutrality but missing. "Are you supposed to suddenly become her support? Step into his shoes? Your commitment to her is over, Hutch."

"I owe her something," Hutch insisted. "I can offer her help when she needs it."

Starsky suspected Hutch had not in fact made that offer, which is why he was wallowing in guilt now. Vanessa must have reached out, and Hutch couldn't offer her what she really wanted.

"So, how did you deal with it? With what she was asking?" Starsky said, not even sure himself what it was Vanessa might have been asking for.

"Badly. She accused me of not caring before I even had a chance to figure out how I felt." Hutch sighed wearily. "Then the discussion got ugly, and I didn't get a chance to handle it at all."

"Hutch," Starsky said gently, exasperated for his partner. "She just can't walk back into your life and lay all this need at your feet."

"I feel - like I should do something, feel something at least. I only felt confused about it. Ken Hutchinson may be the prize bastard Vanessa always accused me of being."

"Because you can't solve her medical problem?"

"No. Because I can't even pretend to care about helping her. She used to be my wife, for Christ's sake! What sort of man does that make me?"

"It makes you a man who's been so hurt, you can't trust easily again. You need time to process all this."

"Vanessa might not have that time, Starsky."

"You don't have the whole story yet. Now, come on. It's late, you're wiped, and so am I. Women have run us both ragged tonight, buddy."

"Damn, Starsky, I shouldn't have called and laid all this drama on you. It's not as if it couldn't have waited - I just felt - -"

"I know when you're hurtin', partner. Just like you'd know for me. That's where Van's so wrong. You care - you care a whole lot for anyone that matters to you. Don't let her make you doubt that about yourself." Starsky moved closer to him and reached out.

Hutch stood and clapped his hand on the Starsky's shoulder. He gave a ghost of a smile. "I don't think she'd consider my relationship with you as proof of my empathy. She's always known you get that from me no matter what." His voice was heavy with emotion.

"Yeah, well, the way she treated you at the end of your marriage forfeited her right to any empathy. You're a kind and decent person, Hutch. Sometimes too kind and decent for your own good." He grabbed Hutch's hand where it rested on his shoulder and gripped it hard. "Now - I don't wanta' hear anymore about this tonight. We'll solve the world's problems tomorrow." He looked quickly at his watch. "Make that later today. I'm crashin' here. I'll ride back home in the mornin'." He gave Hutch a playful swat to his rear. "So move your ass away from my bed, and throw me that blanket. We've gotta' be up in less than four hours."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky burrowed deeper beneath the blanket and groaned at the intrusion into his senses. Something was dragging him from sleep. It was far too early for that. Who the hell was knocking at the door at this time of the morning?

He'd only been asleep three hours - at least, that was what his watch told his bleary eyes. Turning over, he realized he was half-sprawled off the familiar confines of Hutch's narrow, lumpy couch. The knocking was now insistent.

About to bellow for Hutch and make it his problem, he heard the distinctive sound of the shower. Hutch had beaten him, as usual, to the bathroom. The knocking was now his problem. Or, he could just ignore it.

"Go away, will ya'?" he said, as he fumbled around for his discarded jeans and pulled them on over his naked body. He stumbled toward the door. As he flipped the lock and turned the handle, he was gearing up to deliver a mouthful of abuse to whoever might be on the other side. And stopped dead. He stood face-to-face with a woman he had not seen in years. One he would rather have never seen again.

Vanessa.

Still half asleep, he was at a distinct disadvantage. He missed interpreting her initial expression, but he didn't miss the glint of cold contempt she revealed in the first stunned second when they saw each other.

He stepped back.

Vanessa was as beautiful as ever. Impeccably dressed, her make-up appropriate for the morning, her long hair shiny, and her posture regal, she oozed class like a Royal and yet threw off sparks of sexuality like a sex siren. She had matured perfectly into her early thirties, like one of those expensive French wines that Hutch enjoyed blowing his salary on.

She spoke before he had a chance.

"David. What a surprise," she said, but her cool tone told him his presence was anything but a surprise. "I didn't pass any modified sport car as I walked in. Are you driving something more sedate these days?" Her eyes traced a path from his toes to the top of his head and then centered on his lower midriff.

"Hello, Vanessa." His voice was husky with post-waking throatiness. He was disconcerted by her frank assessment as he stood, sleep tousled, at the door. "No - I still drive a car, but I rode over on my motorcycle."

"Oh? You mean the big silver one down there outside the restaurant? Well - it fits your image, I guess. " Her voice was languid as she took in his bare chest, disheveled hair, and unbuttoned jeans. Her eyes lingered a while below his waist, and she smiled tightly.

How did she do that, he wondered? Sound coquettish and malicious at the same time. Then, he wondered about where her eyes were focused and if he might be partly exposed with a half-mast zipper and no briefs. Surreptitiously, he swept his hand down to find he was decently covered.

"It's been a while," he said, hoping like hell she couldn't sense his discomfort about his state of undress, but suspecting she was enjoying it.

"A while? Yes, it has. Years in fact, but things don't seem to have changed much." She looked toward the bedroom. "You're here early - or should I say - late?" She glanced at the scattered beer bottles on the coffee table behind him, then at the blanket on the couch.

"I dropped in for a late beer," he said simply and immediately resented that he felt the need to explain why he was at Hutch's.

"And then stayed - as you always do. Like I said, not much has changed." The venomous nuance was there and he didn't like it.

He headed for Hutch's small kitchen. He'd have to wait to use the john. Normally, he'd just barge in on Hutch when he was hogging the bathroom, but not with Vanessa there.

He sensed her behind him as she walked into the apartment as if she owned it. She laid her handbag down and followed him toward the kitchen, and he felt immediately trapped, as if she were closing in on him.

Starsky retreated behind the fridge door and pulled out a carton of juice. Splashing the liquid into a glass, he downed it in one long swig. Fortified, he turned to Vanessa. She leaned against one of the kitchen chairs as though ready for a photo shoot, her perfectly manicured hand resting under her chin, watching him with her big grey-green eyes.

"Hutch is in the shower," he said unnecessarily, the sounds emanating from the bathroom clear evidence. "You want some coffee?"

"Um...depends. I prefer freshly ground beans."

Even that irked him. "Nope, these are pre-ground. I'm putting some on for Hutch and me anyway."

"For you and...Hutch." She rolled the phrase around slowly while looking at the apartment, studying it. "Very domestic."

That irked him even more. As he set the coffee to percolate, he was relieved to hear the bathroom door open.

Hutch walked out, towel around his waist, rubbing another one over his damp hair. "Bathroom's all yours. Hope you've got the coffee ready for - " His last words died on his tongue as he took in the sight of his ex-wife in the kitchen. "Vanessa?"

She tossed her hair lightly over her shoulder, and then rolled her wristwatch around her slim wrist. "Ken, good morning. We did say quarter to seven, didn't we?" She lifted one arched eyebrow in question.

Immediately, Hutch looked contrite, his fair cheeks flaring with a flush of color. "Seven? Yeah. Yes - we did. Look, I'm sorry, but we, ahhh - we - I mean I - I overslept."

Starsky winced at Hutch's stutter, which only emerged under pressure or emotional distress.

"He didn't oversleep. In fact, we barely had enough. We were up late," Starsky said as he moved closer to Hutch to support him.

Vanessa looked pointedly at the beer bottles on the coffee table, and then once more at Starsky's bare chest and ruffled hair. "So I gathered."

Taking the opportunity to exit the scene, Starsky left the kitchen. "I just put the coffee on, Hutch. I - um - I'll be in the bathroom."

He brushed Hutch's shoulder before he left and felt his tension. "You get any sleep?" He spoke quietly, but knew Vanessa was taking it all in.

"Some." Hutch said. "You?"

"About three less hours than I wanted. Make me a coffee, will ya? I need it." He left the two of them there, Hutch in his towel looking like he was with a woman he'd never met before, and Vanessa with an expression of mild disdain on her flawless features.

When he returned five minutes later, the atmosphere was still strained. Vanessa, perched on the edge of the sofa, sipping at a glass of juice, gave him a tight smile when he snagged his discarded shirt from beneath the coffee table. Hutch was on the single chair opposite her. As he handed Starsky a steaming mug of coffee, he gave him an apologetic look.

Starsky gulped the too-hot coffee and busied himself with buttoning his crumpled shirt.

"Starsk," Hutch said, "I'll - um - I'll be late to work this morning. Not sure how long I'll be. Could you let Dobey know? I - ah - I need to take Van in for an appointment - a medical appointment."

"That's fine," Starsky said. "I'll let him know. I'll have to go back to my place to get the Mustang."

"Okay." Hutch sounded strained. "Just give me five minutes to get dressed, Van, and then we'll hit the road. What time did you say you had to be there?"

"By eight - but with traffic..." Her tight mouth softened, and she relaxed on the sofa. "Look, it doesn't matter. I'm sure I'll have to wait anyway. Don't rush - I'll catch up with David if he has a few minutes."

Starsky hoped his expression didn't show his distaste. He took another swallow of coffee and nodded at Hutch. "Go on - get yourself ready. I gotta finish this cup before I can hit the road."

Vanessa waited until Hutch left the room before she turned to Starsky. "So, you and my husband are still just as close as ever?" She left the juice on the coffee table and sat forward again.

Starsky said in a measured tone, "Your ex-husband and I are still as close as ever."

She gave the barest of smiles. "Oh sorry. You're right of course. - My ex-husband. Old habits..."

"Been five years. Not such an old habit anymore."

"Yes, time moves on, doesn't it? So tell me, Dave. Are you still happy being a detective?"

Where is that coming from? "Me? I'm happy enough. We have our days - doesn't everybody?"

"I know that it must be hard for you sometimes - well - with the sort of life you had back east." She waited, suddenly looking flustered.

He said nothing. He wasn't about to help her out. Where is she going with this?

Suddenly she changed tack, as though trying to backtrack. "I guess - well is it different from what you thought you might have done with your life?"

He gave up trying to work out what she was on about and shrugged. "Who knows? I went where life took me - Being a cop, it's what I do, what I am." He finished the last swig of his coffee. "What 'bout you? What brings you back here? Kinda outta the blue to drop in like this, ain't it?"

"Drop in?" She seemed affronted. Back to her prickly self. "You make it sound as though I need an invitation to visit Ken. I was here last night 'til after one a.m., and arrived bright and early this morning to find you basking here like some big dark cat. I thought perhaps after all of these years your - um - mutual obsession with each other might have dimmed."

He could see the jealousy in her face and knew they were treading on old ground. "Same ol' Van," Starsky said with a brittle laugh. "Circling for a fight."

"Same David," she said arching one beautifully shaped eyebrow. "Standing between me and my marriage."

"Your marriage ended years ago," he shot back, feeling the old hostility rise up. "Hutch has a whole new life now, so why come back?"

"That's none of your business. It's something between Ken and myself."

"Anything that affects my partner is my business, lady." He was almost pleased to see her pull back at the cold menace in his voice.

"I'd almost forgotten what a bastard you can be. You were always ready to show me your dark side."

"When someone messes with our life, it brings out my threatening side."

"Listen to you! Our life," she said disdainfully. "You talk as though you're a couple!"

For a second, her observation knocked Starsky off guard. He hadn't even realized he'd referred to them in that context.

"What happens in Hutch's life, impacts my life." Starsky quickly recovered, bringing the focus back to Vanessa. "You still haven't answered me, Vanessa. Why are you here?"

"You mean Ken hasn't shared that with you? "She laughed lightly in disbelief. "You two who share everything?"

Starsky nodded. "He said you're here for some kind of treatment."

"And you don't believe that, obviously."

"I'm not Hutch," he said. "I'm on a different playing field where you're concerned."

She shook her head. "Or maybe where I'm concerned you just jump to the wrong conclusions."

He decided to be completely honest. "It's true, I never trusted you, and I'm not likely to start now, especially since you sprang up outta nowhere. But I'm prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. Why does Hutch have to take you for a medical appointment? I'm sure you've gone to plenty of them over the years without his help."

She looked cornered. "Again - that's between Ken and me."

He laughed lightly, shaking his head as he shrugged into his leather jacket. "You haven't changed. Still pushing Hutch in front of you instead of dealing with your own issues."

Her eyes flashed angrily. "I came here to see Ken, but as usual, you're standing between us. I came to LA to talk to him about some personal matters."

He moved in a little closer to her, speaking quietly. "Hutch might be an easy target for all the misplaced guilt you've put on him, but there's nothing wrong with how I see things. Think about that."

"You think I care what you think, David? Seriously?" It was her turn to laugh.

"Probably not. That's your main problem, Vanessa. The only thing you care about is yourself."

"Starsky." Hutch's soft voice was suddenly behind him. He'd obviously heard at least some of the conversation.

Starsky turned and looked directly at him, seeing his silent plea to leave it alone.

Picking up his helmet and keys, he nodded, acknowledging Hutch's unspoken request. "I'll catch you at work, buddy. Good luck this morning, Van." Starsky said it without making eye contact with her.

He wasn't surprised that she didn't honor him with a reply as he closed the door behind him.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

It was nine o'clock when Starsky settled at his desk with a cup of departmental sludge masquerading as coffee. He had just commended himself for his streak of rare productivity with paper work. Clicking the keyboard with a flourish, he saved two outstanding reports that his captain had been harassing him for. Telling himself his admirable work ethic was worthy of reward, he leaned in closer to the computer screen.

Opening his browser, he skimmed images of chrome exhaust fittings for his Ducati. His silver baby deserved to sound a little throatier, and a new exhaust pipe would do wonders for the Silver Beast's image. It couldn't hurt his self-image either. He'd been off his game and needed something to pick him up.

A familiar voice outside his cubicle distracted him. He looked up to see Hutch through the glass partition, standing a few cubicles down, greeting another officer. Hutch didn't linger but made his way to the work bay they shared.

Starsky pushed his chair back and put his feet up on the desk as Hutch entered the semi-private work area.

"So what's this?" Hutch asked, one blond brow arched up. "Not even nine o'clock and you're kicking back? I hope you've got some of those overdue reports finished."

"I'm a lover, not a writer," Starsky quipped.

Hutch groaned. "Bashing out case reports is hardly a literary pursuit. Besides, being a 'lover' is half your problem. If you used your bed for sleeping some of the time you might be more productive."

"As a matter of fact, I've been applying myself diligently since I got here. My hands are cramped from typing and my eyes are strained from staring at the screen." Starsky flexed his fingers and squinted.

"Yeah, sure. More like you've been surfing the net looking at new exhaust pipes for that silver death machine." Hutch's eyes dared him to deny it.

The guy knew him too well. Starsky took his legs off the desk, deciding evasion was the best move. "Hey, I thought you were gonna be later than this. You decide to bail on Vanessa?"

Hutch turned away. Starsky knew it was to hide his embarrassment and frustration. "No, I took her." He paused, as though he was going to leave it at that. "She had an appointment at White Memorial in the Specialist Center."

"You didn't stay with her?" Starsky was surprised. He hadn't expected to see Hutch for hours. Nothing happened fast in the medical system, even outpatient specialist appointments.

"She didn't want me to," Hutch said simply.

"So she comes all the way to LA, gets you to take her for a test, and that's it?" Starsky couldn't help but sound incredulous. "Hell, she could've just taken a cab."

Hutch shrugged, obviously confused himself. "I know, I know. It doesn't make sense, but she didn't want to talk about it." He poured some coffee. Starsky could see he was deep in thought.

Starsky hoped Vanessa's foray back into their lives might be short-lived. "You think she'll try to contact you again?" He tried to make the question casual.

"I really don't know, Starsk. But she seemed damned tense when I dropped her off. Maybe she doesn't want to discuss it until she knows something further." Hutch walked to the desk. "Now, weren't we going to check out leads on the Reynolds case? Samford runs an import business near the docks, doesn't he?"

Sensing that Hutch wanted to veer away from Vanessa, Starsky changed tact. "Yep, that's what Dobey said." His gaze drifted to Captain Dobey's glass-walled office. "Speaking of the Cap, he looks busy this morning. Think he's opened that email we sent him?"

"That you sent him, Starsky. Keep me out of this."

"Did you or did you not sit beside me when we 'borrowed' that PC downstairs?"

"Starsky, I didn't even know what you were doing," Hutch protested. "I was trying to find the roster before that dragon lady from Human Resources found us at her desk. How the hell was I supposed to know you were sending him a link to People's Magazine's freaking 'Diets of the Stars'? God, the trash you fill your head with never ceases to amaze me."

"Light entertainment. You should try it some time. Better than National Geographic issues from 1989. Anyway it was a link to the Kardashian's Diet - 'How Kim lost thirty pounds in fourteen days.' With photos."

"Between the drivel you read and the crap you eat, you'll end up rotting your brain as well as your gut. And just as aside, it's physically impossible to lose thirty pounds in two weeks."

Better, Starsky thought. Back to their usual banter. Their own form of therapy. Far better than looking at Hutch's worry lines when he talked about Vanessa.

"Ssshhh - here he is." Starsky smiled congenially as Dobey entered the squad room and approached their cube. "Hey Cap' - my other half is not as late as he thought he'd be, so we can head down to the docks now."

"Hutch," Dobey said, ignoring Starsky, "Starsky said you needed some personal time, something medical concerning a close relative? Hope everything's okay."

Hutch threw Starsky a quick look of gratitude. Starsky had tried to keep Vanessa's name out of it when he covered for Hutch. "Thanks, Captain. I - well - we don't know for sure yet."

"Let me know if you need any more time." He turned to Starsky, who was giving his captain an almost clinical appraisal, and scowled. "What are you gawking at?" Dobey's broad dark face was creased in annoyance.

"Me? Oh sorry, Cap'n - I was just thinking that you're lookin' good. You been on some new diet we don't know about?"

Dobey preened a little. "I'm just exercising moderation and control, Starsky. Something you might do as well. When I was your age, I could eat whatever I liked, like you do now. You'll soon find out the party's over where the body is concerned."

"Cap'n," Hutch said, "with all due respect, I don't think Starsky's body will ever know the party's over." Hutch poked Starsky's stomach. Then he added for Starsky's ears only, "Or any other pleasures of the body, for that matter."

Starsky smacked Hutch's hand away. "Sorry, Hutchinson. It's the Starsky genes. Generations of pure bodily perfection. It means I can partake in many pleasures with little ill-effect." He gave Hutch a special half smile to ram home the double meaning.

"Well, Starsky," Dobey coughed, "your superior genes and - ah - other attributes aside - I suggest you get off your ass and start your working day. You two have been on Stamford's tail for a week now with little to show for it."

"All right, Cap'n. We hear you," Starsky said. "But - um - have you thought that perhaps this moderation and control thing is making you moody. You know, I've been reading about those Kardas - " The sudden warning on Hutch's face shut him up. Hutch's violent hand slice across his throat made sure of it.

"The only thing I'm controlling is the urge to give you both a double shift to make up for all the time you waste finding ways to irritate me, Starsky - the next time you decide to send me an anonymous email, cover your tracks a little better."

"Huh?"

"Mrs. Simpson in HR didn't take kindly to you two commandeering her PC. You're lucky I talked her out of putting in an official complaint." Dobey smirked. "And you call yourselves detectives..." He chuckled before entering his office.

"He nailed you, Starsk." Hutch grinned at the look on Starsky's face.

"Shut up, Blondie. He meant you, too."

Hutch flicked his hand lightly at the side of his partner's head. "Let's hit the street. The morning's half gone, and we've got work to do."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky was halfway through his third taco when Hutch's cell phone rang. They were sitting in a small café catching a quick lunch after spending a fruitless morning questioning staff and notable clients at Samford's import business.

Hutch looked at the phone and put down his partly eaten wrap.

Starsky noted his unease as he recognized Vanessa's number. "You gonna' answer that?"

"Sure - sure."

He looked anything but sure, Starsky thought. Any mention of Vanessa seemed to transform Hutch into a completely different version of himself, a version Starsky hadn't seen for years. An uncertain, tenuous, always second-guessing himself version of Hutch.

Hutch picked up the phone and walked a few feet away.

The call was brief. Within moments, he was back.

"Vanessa?" Starsky asked.

"Yes," was all Hutch gave him back.

Starsky wondered at the power of a woman who could make Hutch looked so trampled emotionally after a sixty second phone call.

"So, how did it go with the medical thing?"

"She didn't say. I don't think it's something she feels comfortable discussing over the phone."

Starsky kept his skepticism to himself.

"Anyway," Hutch said, "she wants to have dinner tonight. She wants to meet me at some restaurant." He sounded almost detached as though he was still trying to make sense of the call himself.

"You okay with that?" Starsky asked carefully. He couldn't read Hutch well on this, and it left him feeling that Hutch was withholding something from him.

Hutch shrugged. "I just don't know what she wants from me. But - I'll go. Of course."

"You don't have to."

"Starsky, she's in town for medical tests. I think I owe it to her to have dinner with her."

"You seem to think you owe her lots of things, buddy. I think you owe it yourself not to let her drag you into something that's gonna make you uncomfortable. You've been fine all morning. Then, as soon as you hear her voice, you look like you're going to trial or somethin'."

Hutch shook his head. "This is just left-over shit from my failed marriage. A lot of people go through this when things end badly." He crunched up his unfinished sandwich in its wrapper and stood up. "You think I'm doing the wrong thing going out with her tonight, don't you?" The way Hutch said it left Starsky thinking Hutch might want him to talk him out of the dinner date.

Starsky sighed and gave up on his own lunch, wiping his face with the napkin. "I don't buy this whole mysterious illness. I think she has some other agenda. Go to dinner, if only to get to the bottom of it. Just be careful, Hutch. That's all I'm sayin'. Vanessa left you on the emotional scrap heap once before - don't give her the chance to do it again."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Back at Metro, Hutch turned to Starsky as the elevator opened on their floor, and they headed for the squad room. Starsky was watching him in a way that told him he was reading the uneasiness Hutch was feeling at the thought of dealing with Vanessa at dinner. Since the phone call, Hutch could feel his anxiety levels rising steadily, and by the time they arrived back at Metro he was already regretting agreeing to meet with his ex-wife that night.

Sure enough Starsky let him know.

"That organic wrap you ate for lunch have bad sprouts in it or is there somethin' else chewin' your gut?"

Hutch cursed his own transparency when it came to his partner.

"No - it's this damn case that's got me uptight. We're getting nowhere with it. If we don't turn up something soon, Dobey's going to be riding our backs."

It was immediately obvious to Hutch that he hadn't fooled Starsky. "Yeah - you're right, Hutch, the case is at a standstill. I'm gonna research the other import businesses Samford deals with on the West Coast. It's a one-man job and until we get somethin' else to go on, there ain't anywhere else we can go on the case so - " he took Hutch's arm to reinforce his suggestion. "Why don't you take off early? Get ready for your dinner date."

Hutch found himself over-thinking what Starsky meant by that simple comment. "Get ready? How the hell do I get ready?" Hutch bristled. "You mean relax, don't you? You mean I seem uptight?"

"Jeez, don't get all defensive. You seem pretty wound up about it so I just thought - " Starsky suddenly stopped short and muttered, "Shit!"

Hutch glanced up and saw what had caused his partner to stop in his tracks.

Two uniformed female officers stood by the water fountain. They were talking quietly together and laughing as they filled their water bottles.

"What the fuck is she doin' on this floor?" Starsky ground out in a low breath as he came to a halt.

Hutch stopped with him. Following Starsky's glare, he tensed. Hutch stood in front of Starsky, blocking his view. "Just walk on by, Starsk. Just walk by and ignore her."

The look on Starsky's face suggested he had no intention of doing any such thing.

The shorter of the two officers looked up as she stepped away from the cooler, her expression suddenly wary. Small boned and youthful, she had auburn hair that was pulled away from her face.

Hutch thought again how pretty Clare was, almost angelic. Such deceptive looks for what lay beneath.

Her eyes narrowed as she whispered something to the other officer. Apparently, Clare had seen them, too. She stared at Starsky unflinchingly

"What are you doing here?" Starsky hissed beneath his breath, moving closer to her. Hutch looked up and down the corridor quickly.

"We both work in this precinct, David," she said decisively. "Deal with it."

As Starsky closed the distance to Clare, her partner did the same. Hutch had no option but to flank Starsky's side.

"I don't want to deal with it, Clare! Or you, for that matter," Starsky said angrily. "You need to stay out of my face!"

Hutch quickly stepped between them before things escalated. "Starsky, let it go. Come on..." He gripped Starsky's arm and tried to pull him towards the squad room.

Starsky wrenched away and moved even closer to Clare. "You think this is a game? You wanna rub my nose in the fact that we work in the same building? You wanna twist the knife a little more?"

The other female officer, whose nametag read "Houghton," pushed herself between Starsky and Clare. "Back off, Starsky. Not everything's about you."

Starsky only then seemed to become aware of her. "Keep out of this, Houghton. Clare made damn sure that nothing was about me, didn't ya', Clare? How's Lieutenant Carlson anyway?"

Before Starsky and Clare could escalate the argument, Hutch moved close to his partner, gripped Starsky's forearm, and pulled him away. "Starsk. Enough."

There were now other officers watching them. A few had slowed in their activities to see the drama. Then, as though he finally realized how public the setting was, Starsky seemed to get control of his anger. He nodded at Hutch.

Hutch nudged him in the direction of the squad room; Starsky gave Clare one last withering look and walked away.

Clare watched him go before turning back to Hutch. "I don't need this attitude from him - or you, either. I know what you think of me. It's written all over your face."

Hutch lowered his voice as he confronted her out of Starsky's earshot. "What else do you expect after you cheated on my partner with Carlson? I suggest you stay away from this squad room. Coming up here provokes him. All of this is still way too fresh, and pushing yourself into his domain is just asking for trouble. No one wants a public showdown right outside the squad room."

"I'll go where I please! Here in this build or anywhere else. David and I are finished; he's just got to face reality."

Hutch laughed bitterly. "He faced reality when he walked into your apartment to find you screwing Carlson. That was the day after you told him you wanted the two of you to be 'exclusive.'"

Hutch could still see the shocked bewilderment on Starsky's face when he showed up on Hutch's doorstep late that night. Over the days and weeks that followed, Starsky's hurt had not diminished, but was simply buried beneath bitterness.

Clare squirmed as Hutch crowded her against the water cooler. Houghton looked surprised. Hutch supposed there weren't many people who got both sides of the story. Clare and Carlson had made a show of emotional commitment, and Clare had downplayed her relationship with Starsky. Only Hutch knew how deeply the act of deceit had cut into him.

"I fell for someone else," she said defensively. "I didn't plan it. It happens."

Hutch's mouth closed in a hard line. He couldn't trust himself not to say what he shouldn't say to another officer. "Stay off this floor. Even if my partner can eventually cope with you, I object to seeing your face." He turned and stalked away before he lost control.

If they weren't in such a public place, Hutch would've let loose with his real opinion of Clare and how deeply she had hurt his friend. However, it was neither the time nor the place, and it would do Starsky no real good. The damage was done, and Hutch was still trying to pick up the pieces for Starsky, because Starsky sure as hell didn't seem to want to try.

He didn't look back to see if she had left as he entered the squad room.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky was waiting for him when he walked back in. "You didn't have to do that, ya know?"

"Yes, I did," Hutch said as he settled in their shared workstation and started looking through files. He was still bristling, and didn't want Starsky to know how much Clare had gotten under his skin, too.

"Not your issue," Starsky said quietly. "Not your fight."

Hutch stopped sorting through the files and looked at him. "It's my issue every day you remain in self-destruct mode, the way you have been since you found her with Carlson. You keep going at her like that in public, and she's going to bring you up on charges. It would be so easy for her to ruin you over this if - for you to ruin yourself - "

Starsky sagged boneless on his desk chair. "You're right, Hutch. I should be over her. I don't even know why it's still so hard to do that. It's just - I've got all this anger and I just don't know what to do with it."

"Oh, you're doing something with it, partner. You're turning it against yourself. Killing yourself slowly by degrees. And the worst of it, buddy, is that I can't seem to help you stop. I can't help you realize you're worth more than that. Far more. You deserve to find the commitment I know you're really looking for."

Starsky looked at him closely, so closely that Hutch was certain Starsky could see all the mixed emotions he was trying so hard to keep hidden. Emotions that had more to do with Starsky than just worry about his recent behavior. Much more.

If Starsky read anything else on Hutch's face he didn't let on. "I sure can pick 'em, can't I?" he said lightly.

Hutch relaxed. Lately, he was showing too much of something he was sure Starsky wasn't ready to see.

"Hey," Hutch said with a small smile, "make that 'we'. You think I have a better track record? Consider the current dilemma I face with Van...and all those that came after her."

In spite of his anger over Clare, Starsky grinned. "That's damn right. To hell with women. Fuck 'em all."

"Yeah," Hutch said, deciding it was time they talked about this, "you've been trying your best to do that ever since Clare."

"Smart ass. Always the smart ass, Hutchinson."

"You going to deny it? You've been going through women like water. From where I'm sitting, it doesn't seem that it's helped much."

Starsky looked away from his partner. "It hasn't. And I tell you, Hutch, I'm serious when I say I'm done with it." He said the next few words with more effort. "I'm done with their - their lies."

Hutch's response was softer, but his tone serious. "They don't all lie, Starsky. Doing the same to them isn't going to make the hurt Clare gave you any less painful."

"Maybe not." Starsky looked around the squad room and was relieved to see the other detectives engaged in their own tasks.

Hutch lowered his voice. "All I'm saying is, let it go. Let her go. For your own good. Okay?"

Starsky rubbed his face. "Okay. I got it. I hear ya'."

"So? No more one night stands? At least for this week?" Hutch's request had an edge of severity that he knew showed how concerned he felt.

Starsky looked up as if surprised by the seriousness of Hutch's tone. "Okay, I promise to have a few quiet nights in. Just for you, partner. Happy now?"

"Happy."

Starsky leaned in close and lowered his voice to the quietest of growls. "But that don't mean I still don't wanna' rip Carlson's face off if I get half the chance."

Hutch understood, but he was still concerned. He squeezed Starsky's arm, and answered in his own low tone. "That's why you've got me. To make sure you don't. I don't want you to make a rash move that will leave me minus one partner. You run faster than me, so I need you. Alright?" Hutch was already logging on to his desktop and pulling together some hard copy files.

"Is that the only reason you don't want to lose me? 'Cos I put a sprint on your marathon?" Starsky pulled a face, looking wounded.

"Well that - and a few other reasons." Hutch kept a straight face as he went back to the screen. "Now, let's get started on this backlog of paperwork or I'm going to be late for dinner with the ex. And - I sure as hell don't fancy anymore run-ins with pissed off women today."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky had been home for around two hours. After a hot shower, a flick through his home emails, and a quick tidying up of his neglected apartment, he was starting to mellow out. Following Hutch's advice wasn't such a bad idea. It actually felt good to have a night at home by himself with nothing more to contemplate than a cold beer, some left over pizza, and whether to chill out to some music or watch a DVD. In fact, he couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd spent an evening alone, or just with Hutch, lazing back on his sofa. Without being out on some rushed date, after work drinks, and then inevitably - a lackluster experience in the bedroom.

It seemed forever, too, since the anger that gripped him had receded. Lately, he'd been pushing everyone away with his short temper, frayed nerves, and irritable moods.

Except, of course, Hutch.

Hutch was the buoy he swam to, the rope he clung to, the ledge he balanced on. But even more than that, Hutch was the force that stopped him from drowning, from falling, from tipping over the edge.

So even after he raged and acted out, slept around, drank too much, rode his Ducati too fast, and floored the crap out of his Mustang - Hutch was standing to the side waiting for him to get over it. Hutch remained undaunted and seeming unable to be used up no matter how much Starsky needed to take from him.

He carried his beer onto the balcony and breathed in the salty tang of the ocean, and wondered how Hutch was faring with Vanessa. He hoped for both their sakes he could get to the bottom of her problem, help her however he thought he could, so she could move her on with her own life. Hutch sure didn't need her dragging him down.

His concern for Hutch aside, this was the first time in weeks that he'd felt his tension ease. And he admitted to himself that the grayness smothering him was not all about Clare. In reality, his pride was bruised more than his heart.

The truth was, he didn't want Clare. And he didn't want any of the women he had been involved with since Clare. The truth was, he wasn't even sure that he wanted any long-term commitment to a woman at all.

Yet, he wanted something. Something elusive and just beyond reach. Something...too frightening to face. He didn't want to look too closely at the deep want inside him.

He remembered last night's unsatisfactory sex with Lydia, his unresponsive cock and his half-hearted performance. What the fuck was wrong with him? When he was with women, they did not satisfy him; when he was by himself, he had sullen moods. But he never - no, never, felt anything was wrong when he was with Hutch.

Something indescribable was radiating in the distance when the two of them were together. Lately, it had felt like it was coming closer. At times, like today, he felt it might be already upon them.

But at those times, he felt himself pulling back. Not yet. He wasn't ready. Or was he? Was Hutch?

The source was getting too close to hold back. If he weren't on guard, it would ambush him. This intangible and exciting something was not far away.

Perhaps it was time to prepare for it.

He was getting too tired of changing his linen every morning anyway.

**To be continued:**


	2. Chapter 2

**You Can Take the Boy Out of Brooklyn**

**Chapter Two**

It was an upscale restaurant. The fact that Vanessa had chosen it was no surprise to Hutch. It was, after all, Van. As a junior cop he'd had to stretch his beer and pretzel pay to meet her champagne and caviar tastes. Why now, when he'd made Detective Sergeant, a position of some worth, would she expect anything less of him when out on a 'date'?

Determined to enjoy the ambience and the food, he gazed at the impressive wine list.

He'd picked her up from her hotel and had driven them to the downtown restaurant where she'd made their dinner reservation.

Glamorous as always, Vanessa was poured into a silky slip of a silver dress with matching accessories, her long hair coiled at the nape of her neck. Hutch still had an objective eye for her flawless presentation and had complimented her when he'd seated her in the car. He regretted it two minutes later when she made a derogatory remark about his car. Good manners had been ingrained in him since childhood. Vanessa had a similar upbringing; she'd been born into money, but had a tendency for sharp-tongued judgments, reminding Hutch that class could not buy manners.

He let it pass. Her opinions had ceased to matter to him a long time ago. Or so he hoped.

They were climbing out of the car outside the restaurant, the valet taking the keys from Hutch, when she tried to repair her earlier comments. "Umm - Ken, you know that I was only joking about your car before?"

He took her elbow as they walked toward the entrance, but didn't answer.

She went on. "I just don't know why you need to be so - so contrary - driving around in something so - so trashy. It's like your apartment. It looks like - "

"Van," he cut in as he took her arm more roughly than he intended and escorted her toward the restaurant. "Quit while you're ahead, okay?" He knew she could hear the anger in his tone.

She had the grace to color as they entered the foyer and waited to be escorted to their table.

Neither of them spoke as they waited and the silence stretched to the point that Hutch wanted to turn on his heel and walk out the doors he had just entered.

He looked in at the plush interior of the main dining area. What was he doing here? He wondered if Starsky would be true to his word and spend the evening by himself. He had to resist the urge to send him a text. He was saved by the arrival of the Maître D', who led them to their table. Of course, it was near the window, offering them an uninterrupted view of the cityscape.

Naturally, Hutch thought. Vanessa would have arranged it just so.

They'd been seated for five minutes, perusing the menu and wine list, before Hutch broke the icy silence. Putting the wine list aside, he asked Vanessa, "Do you still prefer white meat for your entrée?" He could hear the formality and emotional distance in his voice. When she nodded coolly he asked, "Are you happy with a Sauvignon then?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you, Ken," she answered demurely.

After ordering, Hutch turned back to face her. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his water glass. "Vanessa. I agreed to dinner so we might talk. There are things you don't like about me or my life; you make that clear. However, we're no longer responsible for each other. So, let's try to start again. I'm concerned about you. I'm here to offer whatever support I can while you're in LA for your - your - ah - medical problem. So, can we just have a relaxed evening together?"

Vanessa ran a manicured finger down the starched white dinner napkin, and gave him an orchestrated look of meekness. "Of course. I came to LA to see you because I'm scared. I don't want to fight with you. Let's just drink a glass of wine and share a quiet meal."

"Do you want to talk about what's happening with you? This medical - problem? Have you been given bad news?" He paused while watching her.

"I'm scared, Ken. Simply scared and unsure how to cope."

Her vague comments only elevated his frustration. "Van-" He halted as the waiter appeared with the wine.

It was a minute or so before they were alone again. He turned to her, determined to broach the medical issue head on.

But Vanessa raised her wine glass and dipped it toward his. "Ken - I've had a stressful few days. We're at this lovely restaurant, and I just want to share the evening with you and put all my worries away for a few hours. Can we do that?"

Her expression and words brooked any attempt to delve deeper. He recalled Starsky's words. He knew then that this dinner would not be useful in getting to the bottom of his ex-wife's visit.

He could see her measuring him up, waiting for some sort of response - her face wary enough to show she would block him from pushing the boundaries. Vanessa was scared alright. However, Hutch felt it had little to do with her health. There was more to this, as Starsky suspected. As Hutch himself knew when he first laid eyes on her at his door.

Tired of confrontation and antagonism, he ignored his concerns. Picking up his glass, he completed their toast. "To a relaxing meal then. Remember though, if you want to talk about it, I'm here sitting right across from you."

"Thank you, Ken. I appreciate that, but tonight, more than anything, I just need to unwind a little and think of something other than my worries."

They spent the next half hour in small talk, Vanessa sharing a little about her last two years in New York working in the fashion industry, and briefly, her failed relationship.

Hutch reciprocated by filling her in on his family's latest news, keeping it superficial.

The waiter moved away after serving the main course, and Hutch poured them each more wine, relaxing just a little more.

Vanessa picked up her fork. "You don't see much of your parents then? How about David? I always got the impression he was extremely close to his mother?" she asked idly.

"Starsk?" Hutch answered, a little surprised that she had raised his name. "Sure - if his mother had her way she would see her 'Bubelah' every weekend." He smiled at the Yiddish endearment Starsky's mother used to refer to her hardened LA cop son. "But New York is a hell of a distance for him to travel, and with our hours and schedule, it isn't easy. Still, he's finally taught her how to use Skype," Hutch laughed fondly, "and now he wishes he hadn't."

Vanessa didn't share the humor, instead looking intent. "But he has his brother back there, too, doesn't he?"

"Nick? Yes, but he does manage to get over here from time to time." Hutch refrained from saying what he thought of Nick's random and - from his point of view at least - far from welcome visits.

He had little time for Starsky's younger brother.

"I heard about that mob boss that got killed here some time ago. You and David were involved with the case, weren't you? I saw it on the news... Durniak - Joe Durniak, wasn't it?" He was aware of Vanessa's watchful eyes as she asked the question.

Hutch paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. Her question had come from left of center, confusing him. Something in Vanessa's eyes as she waited made him cautious. "Didn't know you were interested in our cases, Vanessa. But yes - Joe Durniak was gunned down." He said it quietly, aware of their public setting.

"David knew him well, didn't he? I remember years ago when you two were talking about him at dinner one night. That must have been hard on David - his death, I mean?"

"I suppose it was. Difficult for him. But as a cop - well - " Hutch picked up his fork again, suddenly uncomfortable now that Starsky was the subject of the conversation.

"How's your trout? Cooked the way you prefer it?" he said, deflecting the subject.

"It's fine thanks." She waved her hand at the plate, obviously not interested in the meal, as it remained largely untouched. "So does David still see Durniak's family? I know it said in the papers that Durniak had a son about David's age? Must be - umm - hard for David, like you said - being a cop and knowing - well, having connections with that side of the law - "

The relaxed mood that had only just begun to settle on Hutch shifted. Vanessa's questions concerning Starsky, and the intensity with which she pursued them, had him more than confused.

"I really don't know much about Durniak's family," he told her. This was partly true. There were aspects of Starsky's past involvement with the Durniak family that Starsky kept to himself. Hutch respected that. "Anyway, like you said, Starsky's a cop. That comes first - always will for him, no matter what or whom he knows." He said the last words with just enough edge to make Vanessa pull back.

She closed her mouth against whatever else she was about to say. She started paying attention to her meal.

Hutch was left with another layer of concern about Vanessa's sudden desire to be back in his life.

What exactly did she want?

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Starsky waited as long as he could before asking Hutch about his dinner with Vanessa. Ten minutes after he'd picked Hutch up for work, his partner had still not mentioned of it, absorbed in the same pensive state he had when he'd climbed into Starsky's Mustang.

"Okay, I'll bite. Are ya' gonna tell me how it went?"

Hutch looked at him vaguely, which earned him Starsky's elbow to his shoulder.

"Last night with Vanessa? It went okay, then?"

"Okay?" Hutch seemed to be evaluating that. "I guess you could say that."

"You guess?" Starsky gave him a sidelong glance.

"Well, she was less emotional than that first night."

Starsky didn't miss his partner's distracted look. Something about the previous evening was clearly niggling at him.

"And?" Starsky wanted more, especially given the quiet consternation hovering over Hutch like an ill-fitting jacket.

Hutch shrugged. "We caught up on what each of us has been doing since we split. It was - I don't know - an innocuous evening with a woman I used to be married to. What more can I say?"

Starsky felt impatient. "Did she fill you in on how things went with the tests she's had?"

"She said she'd rather not talk about it. She wanted an evening to take her mind off it."

Starsky rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses, making sure Hutch would hear his slight grunt of disbelief.

Hutch frowned at him. "Starsky. You and I have no idea what she might be going through. It could be just too much for her to open up about."

"I can understand why she might want to share this stuff with you - since you've been her husband, it gives you, well, certain rights to the big worrying stuff in her life - hell, like being really sick. But then, to come on strong the first night with all the drama, and then just clam up... Makes no sense, Hutch."

It was Hutch's turn to look sideways at his partner. For a moment, he looked like he might argue the point but then conceded. "I was thinking the same thing all through dinner. But she started to get defensive when I focused on it, so I backed off."

"Humph." Starsky made sure it was a little more pronounced than his previous grunt.

"You're still not buying it, are you?" Hutch asked.

"Just that none of it adds up, buddy."

Neither of them spoke for a moment, Starsky concentrating on traffic, Hutch scrolling through his phone messages.

"So, when's she leaving town?" Starsky finally asked.

Hutch looked up, seeming surprised at the new question. "Not sure. She really didn't make that clear. Anyway she never mentioned wanting to meet again, either."

"Well, if that's the case, then tonight, you and I are on for dinner at Hug's." Starsky wasn't in the mood to nudge Hutch anymore on the subject. "It's been ages since we've hit his joint."

"Hey - I've been hitting Huggy's joint plenty, pal. By myself. You're the one who's been shackled to a date every night. Huggy's beginning to think you're boycotting him to avoid paying that humungous bar tab you racked up."

"You still haven't cleared that tab?" Starsky kept a straight face and made sure to keep looking straight ahead.

"Not when seventy percent of it is yours."

"Hug knows I'm good for it. Anyway - dinner? Tonight? Since you want me to cut down on indiscriminate dating, it's your duty to keep me on the straight and narrow."

That got a laugh out of Hutch. "It's never worked before, buddy, but I'll try. I won't let you pick up any strange women - unless I'm interested in them, too."

"And here I was thinking we were too old for a threesome. Well, you anyway babe, with that bad back of yours and all," Starsky teased.

"Starsky - no threesomes." Hutch said emphatically. Starsky turned to see if he was serious or joking, but before he could, Hutch spoke again, more softly this time. "In fact, no women at all, okay?" Hutch rubbed his forehead and looked away. "I'm tired of watching you." Starsky couldn't miss the sadness that crept into those last words.

Starsky felt his breath hitch. The words alone seemed superficially jokey. Hutch's delivery was not. What sat between them in the drawn out pause was no longer funny to Starsky.

"Tired of watching me, or tired of watching me with women?" Starsky felt he might be uncovering something crucial with the question.

There was another pause from Hutch, and Starsky waited.

Hutch gave him a measured look and a strained smile. Or was it a sad smile?

While Starsky was trying to figure that out, Hutch broke the quiet, avoiding the question. "So, dinner is on you. Huggy's got a great new piano player doing sessions 'til the end of the month. He does his last set by nine, and I'd love to hear him again. If we can cut out of work on time tonight, we'll catch most of it and get fed at the same time." Hutch was looking at him again, the sadness replaced by a lighter mood. Whatever he might have revealed was safely blanketed again.

Huggy, piano players, and dinner plans. Safe ground. The status quo of their relationship.

Starsky went back to concentrating on traffic and Hutch to his phone messages, but Starsky sensed they were both thinking about the indefinable ripple that had just passed between them.

How desolate safe ground could feel. He was as tired of the status quo with Hutch as he was of changing his bed linen every morning.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

"Just leave it there, and I'll get it in a moment," Vanessa told the room service waiter. "Thank you."

She waved a handtoward the hotel's waiter who had just carried in her breakfast tray. Pulling the phone away, she scrabbled in her handbag and held out a few dollars to the young man as a tip. He left quietly, closing the door behind him.

Taking a steadying breath, Vanessa resumed her conversation. "I'm back. No...no, nothing to worry about. Just room service. I - I haven't run into any trouble since I've been here. Yes, I know, I know. I'm being careful, and I'm keeping my eyes open."

She paused and listened for a while, then rolled her eyes in frustration. "I'm not a fool, Jake." She looked down at her hand as she listened; her brow furrowed at the chipped manicure. She knew her irrational annoyance over it was out of perspective given the situation she was in. However, the familiar focus on her grooming took her mind away from her increasing anxiety.

She paced the room. "Jake, stop it, will you! Don't talk to me like I'm one of your dumb little admin assistants. I know my way around life. I was married to a cop for nearly five years, you know. Just because I haven't got Marco beside me anymore doesn't mean I can't work a few things out for myself. I would know if someone's onto me. There's been nothing. Besides, the only time I've been out, I've been with my ex. Trust me; he'd soon realize if someone was lurking behind doorways. He's a cop twenty-four-seven. Okay? Good. No, I haven't found the opportunity yet, but I will. I have an idea of where - yeah, I'm sure it's safe." Her impatience rose as she listened to him. "God, Jake! Will you stop worrying? I haven't even talked to him about it yet."

She wandered over to the breakfast tray to walk away some nervousness. Disinterestedly, she lifted the lid. Uncovering the contents of the hot meal did nothing to entice her appetite. She picked up a triangle of toast and nibbled the corner as she listened to her caller.

"Ken seemed to believe me. He dropped me at the Specialist Center and was very sympathetic - offered to stay and wait with me. I tell you, it was hard enough getting him to leave...I was getting worried he would just stay and - "

Nodding and listening, she put down the toast to pour black coffee from the heated carafe.

"I told you - I'd already booked a consultation with a specialist in case he checked up on me. Why? God, you can be stupid. I needed to give him a reason why I was in LA, that's why. I could hardly just show up without a back story."

She listened for a few more minutes.

"Of course, I didn't tell him about Marco! You think my detective ex-husband wouldn't get suspicious if I told him my boyfriend had been killed? I embellished the truth - told him Marco recently dumped me when I found out I was sick. Added to the overall effect and worked in my favor."

The coffee was strong and hot; she sipped appreciatively as she listened.

"Yes - yes. I've already told you that. It went - well, it went as I expected. No, not yet. Look, I haven't had the chance. It's not that easy, you know. I can hardly come out and throw it at him when I just got here. This guy - he's different from my ex-husband."

She could feel the tension in her hand as she gripped the phone, tension caused by just the thought of dealing with the man who always made her feel like he could see right through her. The man who had always (if she was honest) intimidated her, and she prided herself on not being easily intimidated. "He's - well, he's not the easiest man in the world to deal with, and I am not exactly one of his favorite people."

That was an understatement, but there was little point in alarming Jake anymore than he already was.

"I just have to find the right time and place. Jake, I feel like you're pushing me on this." She dropped the coffee cup with a clatter and jumped as the hot liquid sprayed the back of her hand.

"Alright. Alright! I'd like to see you manage this situation. You're calling the shots, but I'm the one who has to pull this off. I don't feel comfortable taking this to him. He can be - let's just say you don't know him like I do. If anything, he seems - more difficult than he used to be, and he was always unpredictable, even then."

She pressed her hand on a folded napkin, but it needed ice water.

"You just make sure you're doing your bit like we discussed, and I'll do mine. I need to go. No - I'll call you. Don't call me again; wait for me to contact you when and if I have something definite to tell you, because all you're doing is making me anxious. I'm doing my best here, Jake, and your leaning on me isn't helping. I don't remember Marco appointing you the boss if something happened to him."

She sighed, and listened for a few moments more.

"Okay - I'll try for tonight, but it won't be easy to convince him. I'll let you know as soon as I talk to him again. "

She ended the call, and pushed her hair off her face before running a hand across her brow. She swore she could feel the pressure in her forehead, her skin bunched and tight with worry and fear.

Shoving the breakfast tray away, she picked up the phone again. Before she could change her mind, she entered the number she had jotted down before. The time had come to do what Jake pushed her to do.

As she waited, she caught her reflection in the desk mirror. There it was - just as she had felt it. All over her face. She was afraid and becoming more frightened with every moment.

She readied herself for the call and prayed he would be available to talk to her. Prayed he would be_prepared_ to talk to her. And getting him to agree to meet with her? That was going to be the real hurdle.

The line buzzed. She waited.

_Damn you, Marco...why did you have to leave me in the middle of this mess_?

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

"Hey, Starsky!" Slattery, one of the older detectives in the squad room called him as soon as Hutch and he walked in."Check out your desk. Call came in on your extension, twice already. You two never seem to be at your work stations."

"That's because we're out on the street where the real action is, Slattery. You should try it some time. Not too many perps pop outta' the computer screen, ya know."

"Well then, tell the people who are calling you to get you on your cell. I'm tired of picking up your calls."

The day hadn't even begun, Starsky thought, and officers were bitching already. The real 'bull pens' were in the squad rooms, not down in the holding cells.

Starsky raised his eyebrow at the grouchy officer. "So who asked ya to?"

"And by the way," Slattery threw in for good measure, "Dobey's been looking for the two of you."

Starsky stripped off his jacket and straddled his office chair, picking up the scribbled phone number.

Hutch came in behind him in time to hear the comment about Dobey.

Starsky thumbed the piece of paper on his desk. "Slattery - who'd you say this call was from?"

"Some woman. She wouldn't give me her name or any other information. Sounded pretty determined to talk to you - and _only_ you." Slattery wore a sarcastic grin before moving closer to Starsky, making a theatrical show of looking about to ensure he was out of earshot of other staff. "Thought maybe it was one of your lady friends. We all know how ya got the ladies on the run lately, Starsky."

Starsky flicked the note aside, and didn't miss the chilled look that Hutch threw at Slattery. "Shut it, Slattery. I'll call her later. Gotta see the Cap' now. We're late as it is with that damn traffic." He moved to pick up files from the desk to report to their captain.

He was surprised when Hutch put his hand on the files and shook his head. "No. Just take a minute to call her back." He lowered his voice and stepped further into the partitioned workstation, blocking out Slattery's curious gaze. "It's probably your date from the other night. The one you left in a not-so-happy state when you came to see me. Sort it out - quickly. I'll start with Dobey."

Starsky was a little nonplussed at Hutch's attitude. "Thought you were full of good advice about me not wasting my time with one night stands," he whispered back, giving Slattery a narrow-eyed warning to walk away.

As Slattery did, Hutch picked up the phone and handed to him. "I meant it. So deal with her, and put it behind you. Then we can deal with our day and whatever Dobey has waiting for us." He jerked his head toward the other cubicles. "Don't give Slattery any more reason to rib you about this stuff." He stood up, taking the files. "Come in when you're ready. I'll cover for you. Five minutes."

"I don't even know that it's Lydia," Starsky said. "Could be anyone calling me on this line."

Hutch shook his head. "She knew you'd have to respond to a call coming into the squad room. Just talk to her, and figure out what you have to do to move on."

Before Starsky could argue with him, Hutch took the files and walked off toward Dobey's office, fixing Slattery with a withering look before pulling open the captain's door.

Starsky was left looking at the scrawled number on the note. The number meant nothing to him, but then how many new numbers had he stored in his cell in the past month - most of which he never used again?

He hesitated. Lydia had his cell number, but like Hutch said, she probably thought he'd dodge her calls, so called him at work. Maybe. But despite Hutch's advice, he was reluctant to return the call. Punching in the number, he braced himself for Lydia's tirade.

When the call was finally answered, he was shocked.

Hearing Vanessa's voice made him automatically glance at the captain's door, as though Hutch could hear her voice across the distance. He spoke quietly, but with a decided edge. "Vanessa? Were you looking for Hutch? They gave the message to me by mistake."

"No, David. I wanted to talk to you. I didn't want to risk you answering your cell in front of Ken. I thought leaving a message at the precinct was the best way of going about this. I don't want him to know about this call. Please." He could hear something frantic in her voice.

"Know what?"

"Is Ken with you?" she whispered urgently.

He already didn't like what was happening. "Not right now." He looked again toward Dobey's office, feeling guilty for even admitting that much.

"I need to see you."

"You _did_ see me. Only yesterday. Where you and I are concerned, once was enough." It came out before he could censor it.

"Please. Don't make this harder for me, David. It's hard enough just making this call to you."

He frowned at the stress in her voice. "Make what hard? You're not making any sense."

"Will you meet with me? I'll tell you then. Please, David. I didn't make this call lightly. This is very important."

"What about Hutch?" Starsky was increasingly unsettled by the secretive nature of her call.

"He can't know. I - I don't want him to know. Please." Vanessa's voice bordered on frantic.

"Does this concern him?"

He heard her blow out a breath. "Indirectly. I need your help, and that will help Ken, too. But meantime, you can't tell him." Her voice hitched. "I know you don't believe I have feelings for Ken, but I do. I really do. I don't want him to know about this as it could be - well, it wouldn't be good for him."

Starsky leaned forward in his chair and rubbed his forehead. "You've got to do better than that, Vanessa. You want me to meet with you about something without Hutch's knowledge, then I need to know why. I don't like the sound of any of this."

He heard her suck in a deep breath. "David, I'm in real trouble. But if I can't sort it out, Ken could get dragged into it, too. And if he does...it could mean his career...everything. Worse than that, it will put him in real danger."

Unsteady now, he looked again at the captain's closed door. "What the hell do you mean by danger?" He thought of the evenings Hutch had spent with Vanessa and how little he'd really said about it. How little he'd really revealed about Vanessa's surprise visit.

Did Hutch hold back on what he'd told him about Vanessa's sudden re-entry into their lives?

Absorbed in his own maelstrom of worries, he was jerked back by Vanessa's voice.

"Please, David. Just hear me out." Starsky thought she might be crying. Theatrics or not, he couldn't be sure. He was still stuck at the mention of Hutch at risk.

Dobey's office door opened suddenly, and Hutch's head poked out. Seeing Starsky still on the phone, he pointed behind him indicating Dobey's impatience with his delay.

Starsky held his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "Be right there." Hutch remained in the doorway, letting him know his time was up. Starsky spun his office chair away from Hutch's gaze. He couldn't look at him while he decided what to say.

"Okay, my place. Tonight. Eight o'clock." Starsky could see Hutch waiting for him, concerned that the call was taking so long. He mumbled low into the phone. "I'll text you the address later, okay?" Starsky hung up the phone, and avoided Hutch's eyes.

"Dobey wants your input on the case," Hutch said, although it was obvious his mind was more on Starsky and his phone call than the case. "You done with your call?"

"Yeah, all done." Starsky walked over to him.

As he got closer, Hutch said, "You don't seem too happy about it."

"What?" Starsky was still thinking about Vanessa's warning.

Hutch stopped him from entering Dobey's office. He lowered his voice. "The phone call? I gather that our dinner tonight at Huggy's is off?"

"Sorry, I didn't see any other way out of it. Rain check?" He felt nervous, as though Hutch could see right through his lie.

"So which one of your ladies is this?"

Starsky was ready. "Lydia. You were right. The woman I so rudely walked out on to come to you. "

"I see. It seems you're not quite as finished with her as you said."

"I - look, we ended badly, and I was hard on her. Now I feel like every sort of heel. She started crying and..."

Hutch just looked at him, something indiscernible on his face. Had Starsky disappointed him?

"I get it, Starsk. You don't have to explain." The way he said it made Starsky realize Hutch _was_ trying to hide his disappointment.

"We can make Hug's tomorrow night," Starsky offered, concerned that he had left Hutch feeling rejected. But, it couldn't be helped. He didn't want to drag Hutch into another round of worry about this thing with Vanessa. More than that, Vanessa had him stirred up. He hoped she was just using drama to draw him in. How the hell could Hutch be in danger?

Hutch continued to look at him closely, and Starsky wondered if he could tell he was lying.

Finally, Hutch nodded. "Sure. Tomorrow night. Come on. Dobey's waiting."

As Starsky followed Hutch into Dobey's office, he felt sick at the whole scenario. Sick and guilty.

The worst of it was, he didn't even know why.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

It was one of those evenings for Hutch, long and relentless. He felt dragged along its time span in a slow motion of self-recrimination. An evening so difficult to get through that even his haven, his semi-covered balcony filled with his "jungle" of plants, as Starsky like to call it, failed to give him peace.

Dejectedly, he turned away from the shadowed balcony and walked back inside his living room. It was late, far later than he realized. His unstructured evening had passed him by while he was submerged in circular thoughts. He wasn't hungry, felt too apathetic to pull a beer from the fridge and too wrung out to watch a movie. Despite his physical lethargy, however, he was too primed with anguish to consider sleep.

Besides, he needed to work through what was twisting his insides. He could not afford distractions or obstacles like sleep.

First, he had to push through resenting how Starsky had disappointed him once more. He'd had too many evenings like this, but tonight, somehow, it felt far worse. Starsky had gone off again in pursuit of some woman. Of course, it would end badly. The woman would be hurt, even more than she had been before, and Starsky would hide his feelings beneath another layer of denial. Starsky would come away with another notch on his bedstead and a fresh conviction that the women in his life caused him nothing but pain.

The darkness that had been steadily enveloping him since Clare and had ripped his ego to shreds was only going to grow. How bleak was that resentment going to get before Starsky would call a halt to his self-punishment? It had been so long since Starsky's lightheartedness had gone.

Tonight was really Hutch's own fault. He'd told Starsky to answer that call knowing full well it would end like this. Maybe he'd been testing Starsky? Maybe he'd hoped that his partner would refuse to return the call to Lydia. Choose instead to spend the evening with him over a quiet dinner as they had planned.

_Christ, Hutchinson! Face it! You're simply jealous._

No. Even as he considered the simplicity of that admission he knew it was more complex than that.

So complex that sitting here in his own comfortable space was doing nothing to help with his tumultuous emotions. He felt like he was trapped in a box with all those parts of himself that he was too scared to examine.

He knew he was going to be like this this evening. As soon as he and Starsky had gone their separate ways and not on to Huggy's as they had planned that morning in the car. Those few moments in the car where the air was dense with all that bound them together and yet was keeping them apart. Unspoken thoughts and withheld actions. In those moments, Hutch sensed they were both being pulled toward something they were powerless to resist.

Hutch had come so close in that stillness to telling Starsky what he felt and had been feeling for such a long time now. But like most things fleeting – like pain and beauty – the moment passed him by, and he was once more left with the war of relief and sadness that he hadn't taken the risk.

Again.

How many times had he not taken the risk? Far too many to remember. For the prospect of throwing away caution and losing was just too frightening for him.

He had told Starsky in the car – in an ambiguous way – that he was tired of it all. And that much was true. The overload of Starsky's women did tire him. However, it was the other part of the question that Hutch had not answered that had him full of self-remorse this evening.

"Tired of watching me?" Starsky had asked him – so softly, so carefully.

And he hadn't the strength to answer him. The fear of loss was just too frightening again.

_No, Starsk. No. It's not you I'm tired of watching. _

For how could he ever tire of watching him?

What he was really tired of was his own state of inertia. So very sick of watching himself watching Starsky do what he was doing. Allowing Starsky to punish himself by hurting others. Standing uselessly on the sidelines while his closest friend, the most significant person in his life, cast about for some commitment of love, some antidote to his painful emptiness.

That was what Hutch was really tired of experiencing. That was what had really worn him down.

Especially when he believed he had the solution, had the answer to stop all of Starsky's self-destructive anger. When he had the power to pull him out of his self-imposed darkness and back toward the light that was the real Starsky. The Starsky he knew and loved.

His Starsky.

In the past few weeks he was getting closer and closer to taking the risk of disclosure.

And then Van showed up on his doorstep and put another obstacle in his path.

So now they each had their demons to deal with that held them back. Him with Vanessa and all that she dredged up; Starsky with his perceived failure with women – each of them working in the opposite direction to where Hutch knew they should be heading.

So here he was. And there was Starsky. And in between were all the women – in both of their lives – past and present. Failed, wasted, hurtful unions that Hutch was worried Starsky would keep repeating, over and over until he got so brittle, so hardened that he might be lost to him forever.

He had to make a choice. Take the risk and possibly lose it all. Or do nothing and keep the Starsky he had now. The Starsky who was fast becoming surly and bitter. Certainly not the jaunty, easy-going guy – but a version of Starsky nonetheless and better, far better than no Starsky at all.

Hutch knew it was time to move forward and step into the risk. It might get him all he wanted or lose everything he already had, but either way he had to step out of this place he was in and move forward.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

It had been more than twelve hours since Starsky had spoken to Vanessa on the phone and when he opened the door to his apartment and saw her perfectly made-up face, styled hair, and figure-hugging dress, he wished he had never agreed to meet with her. The worrying guilt he had tried to hide all day from Hutch paled into insignificance with what was twisting his gut as he ushered her inside his apartment.

"David?" Vanessa said, as he closed the door behind her. "You managed to arrange this without Ken knowing?"

_Whatever hell "this" was,_ he thought.

He locked the door behind her, not even sure why he felt the need to do so. After all it wasn't as though Hutch was likely to make one of his customary unexpected entrances – not when he believed that Starsky was spending the evening with Lydia.

"You think I'd be standing here if he knew?" Terse and abrupt, his cutting jibe reflected his mood.

Dropping her light coat on the nearest sofa, she surveyed his living room and ocean-side balcony. She walked toward the balcony and looked at the ocean view. "Ken told me about your new place. It's a long drive back into the city to your station though, isn't it?"

Her attempt at small talk seemed out of place, but he obliged her. "It's worth the commute. I like keeping work and home separate." Which of course was a fallacy as he and Hutch, as working partners, spent the majority of their free time together. Well, they had until lately…since Clare.

"And so close to Ken's studio in Venice," Vanessa put in, as though she had seen the contradiction herself in his proclamation about work and home.

Starsky shrugged. "It's convenient for us to live close. Makes sense."

"Hmmm…" she started, then stopped from saying anything more judgmental. "Ken loves that squalid little apartment for some reason." She moved about, gliding her hand over a display cabinet, touching a painting. Her eyes landed on a freshly stubbed out cigarette in the small ceramic bowl he used at an ashtray. Promising himself daily that he would give up the recently resumed habit (not having smoked since his days in the army ), he had refused to acquire an ashtray. He wondered if she was aware at the way she turned up her nose as she looked at the discarded cigarette. Disapproving, judgmental, and aloof.

Perversely, her non verbal censure made him want to light up in front of her there and then – but told himself to get over it, and instead picked up the bowl with the butts and turned toward the kitchen.

"You want a beer or something?" Opening the door of his fridge, he continued to watch her as she examined his apartment. He could sense her quiet distress buried beneath her cool facade. Vanessa was not her normal cool self. It was as though she was already wary of him.

Despite her quiet unease she aimed to project a shaky disdain with the way she prowled catlike from one corner of his living room to the next. He found her graceful moves almost theatrical. Pulling a six pack of cold beer from the fridge he eyed her more closely. Clearly beneath her veneer she was actually nervous and the orchestrated moves were an attempt to cover her unease.

"I – ah – don't drink beer." There it was again. The subtlest expressions of distaste flitting across her features. Beer and cigarettes, the antithesis to her social persona.

He clicked his fingers lightly as he set the beer on the counter. "That's right. I remember now. You never liked Hutch drinking it either. Showed a lack of class."

She frowned back at him. "It had nothing to do with class. It's strange that you choose to remember it that way. I just don't like the taste. I shouldn't need to apologize for what I prefer to drink."

She was ruffled, and he was surprised. Vanessa wasn't normally so easily displaced in conversation. He didn't want to argue over social preferences. Not now.

"I've got some white wine – chardonnay. Is that okay with you? " She nodded, and while he uncorked the bottle and poured her a glass, he was aware that she had turned away from him and was looking out at the rapidly darkening ocean. She turned as he approached and accepted the glass from him, his beer in his other hand.

"Ken told me you had bought near the beach. At least you have a nice view and it's quiet." She gave a small tight smile. "Not like his quaint home over that noisy little restaurant in that artsy district of Venice. It's so – well – so – "

He took a swallow of beer, cutting her off sharply as she cast around for a suitable derogatory descriptor. "Why'd ya' want to see me, Vanessa?"

She took a shaky breath before putting the wine glass on the coffee table. She clenched her hands together. "I need your help, David." Her tone was pitched to match the request.

"I thought we established that much on the phone." He knew he didn't sound sympathetic. "This help you need from me – is this the real reason you're back in LA? You're not really sick, are you, Vanessa?"

"It's more complicated than that."

"So, how about you uncomplicate it for me. What's the story? The real story, not the one you've given to Hutch."

She sighed, but wouldn't meet his eyes. She drank from her glass as though to fortify herself. "I have a friend back in New York. He's been helping me get through a difficult time since – I lost my boyfriend, Marco. Anyway, Jake, my friend – I told him you're from New York, that you have some connections there."

He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"Ken told me about your life in Brooklyn, and that you sometimes mentioned your past when you'd come for dinner. Jake hopes you might use those – um, contacts to help us. He and I – well we both need to get out of a difficult situation."

Starsky looked at her flushed cheeks. This little speech was costing her. "Start at the beginning. This 'Marco' – is this the man you told Hutch walked out on you when he supposedly found out you were ill?"

"Hutch told you," she said accusingly before her accusation fell away to reveal resignation. "Of course he told you. He tells you everything. Seems as though nothing has changed with the two of you, has it?"

Starsky didn't even attempt to answer her. "Is he? The asshole who Hutch said walked out on you?"

"Yes – that's Marco. We were together for over a year. He got me involved in some things I wished I'd never heard of. He brought a lot of trouble into my life." She looked wistful. "Some good times, too – but in the end Marco brought me real trouble."

"He's out of your life now, though? For good?"

"You could say that." She nodded shakily, sadly. "Marco's dead."

He was startled by her flat-toned admission. "Dead? Hutch only told me he walked out on you."

"Of course he told you that. It's what I told him, after all. I'm fairly sure he believes it, too. I don't want him to know any of this, David. He can't help me."

"And you think I can?" Starsky raised his thick brows.

"I'm in deep trouble, David. Marco is not just dead – he was killed. He took something, and thought he could get away with it – thought we'd take the money and run. We were supposed to leave New York last week. Jake, his best friend, was helping us with the job. I saw Marco early Monday, and that night we were to take a flight. I was packed and waiting all afternoon. He never came back. Jake called and told me they'd killed him."

Starsky grabbed her by the shoulders. "Who is 'they'? What did he take? What was Marco into? Drugs? Coke?"

"Meth. Straight from the lab." It came out in a rush.

Starsky cursed. "Start at the beginning and give me the full story. How long had he been dealing in meth?"

"Probably just over a year. I didn't know. By the time I had feelings for him I knew something wasn't right. I started to put it together. His disposable cash flow was too high, his lifestyle was just too – too highbrow for what he must have been earning. I got suspicious and –"

"And yet you stayed with him? Knowing he was a drug dealer. Christ, woman!" Starsky shook his head in bewilderment, running his hand through his curls.

"He wasn't a dealer. Not really what you'd think of one anyway," she answered defensively. "He just fell into it. The business opportunity, I mean."

"Of course. A business opportunity." Starsky scoffed, with no attempt to mask his derision.

She gritted her teeth at his reaction. "I know how it sounds, but that's how it started. He just – fell back into contact with some old college friends. They gave him a taste of what he could have. But he never did the big transactions like they did. He was just on the periphery. He had a good career in a stock brokerage on Wall Street. He was smart, had two degrees in business and finance but –"

"But thought he'd make better money faster in the drug business?" he finished for her. "Vanessa, for God's sake, you were a cop's wife for some years. You know from your experience with Hutch's job what happens to people in that lifestyle."

"I never knew it would come to this! Marco had only ever dealt with small amounts…." She tapered off, sounding unconvinced herself.

"Until the packets he dealt in got bigger, the transactions of cash larger…." Starsky concluded, weary experience in his words.

She nodded, conceding to his insight. "This last one – I mean, this big last job. Marco had never done anything like this before. The two guys he knew – they worked for this big boss – and they decided to take off with one of the biggest hauls they had ever moved for him. They asked Marco to help them, but in the end they treated him like he didn't rate. They were going to walk away with more than ten million. The cut they offered Marco was ridiculously small. He deserved more. He and Jake hatched a plan to steal the parcel and clear the country before the other guys knew what he was doing. I don't know what went wrong – but it did. Very wrong. The two guys – they must have known what Marco was planning…"

"Ten million?" Starsky gave a small whistle of shock. "That's a sizeable load of meth."

Vanessa nodded. "Some big boss commissioned the stuff – he bought the services of a few corrupt industrial chemists and set them up in a fancy lab. The meth was different from the usual strength – potent compared to what was already on the streets. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

"Modified meth. Very much the preferred thing right now," Starsky said. "You were going to run with Marco when he stole the parcel?" He knew his distaste showed on his face.

She shook her head. "I wasn't in on it. I only found out at the end – when Marco and Jake had it all worked out." She frowned at his reaction. "Don't look at me like that! I didn't want to lose him. He was leaving the country until it was safe…" Her voice trembled. "I couldn't bear to lose him." She started to cry.

He was unmoved by her emotion. "You sure it wasn't the millions you didn't want to lose?" he asked drily.

"I don't expect you to believe me." Her voice quavered as she fingered her damp eyes with care. "You only see me as a money-hungry woman."

He ignored her accusation. Now was not the time to go there. "So what happened?"

"I told you, they killed him! The two supposed college friends killed him. Under orders from the head guy, I suppose, but they still murdered him in cold blood. And it's just ripped me apart."

He was losing his patience. "This is a sad story, but I don't think you're here to get me to sympathize with your boyfriend's death. Why did you bring up my life in New York?"

She finished her wine. "May I have a refill?"

As he brought her the bottle, he realized her cool veneer was slipping away as the alcohol eroded her defenses. Topping her glass, he asked quietly, "You have the meth, don't you?"

She looked at him, surprised. "How –?"

"I'm a cop. Give me some credit."

"Marco never came back, but I know where he stashed it. So, Jake and I, well, Jake is trying to help me sort out the whole mess – "

"I bet Jake is."

"He's my friend," she cried out. "He was Marco's best friend. He doesn't want to see me get hurt."

He had to impress upon her the gravity of the game she was playing. "You'll get more than hurt – you could wind up exactly like your boyfriend. You and this Jake. Dead."

"That's why I need your help, David. That is why I came here to LA."

It all started making sense. "You think I can help you? Why? Just because I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Brooklyn?"

"It's closer to you than you realize. I remember hearing you and Ken talk about you and your father's relationship with him. He was fond of you."

Starsky stood up straight, his face intent. He knew exactly whom she was referring to. "The man these college buddies worked for? You mean they were Durniak's men?"

"Yes." She watched his face, then looked down as though the reaction in his eyes was more than she could take.

It was clear why she had come to LA, why she had wheedled herself back into Hutch's life, why she was standing in front of him. She'd used Hutch just to get to him. He had something that Hutch didn't have – a connection to Durniak. It was clear now, very clear, just how much trouble Hutch's ex-wife was in.

"Even if I could help you, why should I?" But, he already knew the answer. Manipulation. It was always Vanessa's best skill.

"You think Ken would want me to die? What would that do to him? His ex-wife killed because she was caught up in a drug deal gone badly? He feels – deeply."

"Yes, he does. And you hurt him deeply. You killed the part of him that cared about you a long time ago."

Her slight laugh enraged him. "Maybe I did. But still – it would be disastrous for his career."

He paced across the room before he could lash out at her for threatening Hutch. "Look, Vanessa, even if I could – Joe Durniak is dead. You know that, I'm sure."

"But his son has taken over control of his organization."

"Tony Durniak is not Joe." He tasted the bitterness in his words.

"You knew him, though. You must have. He's close to you in age. Lived in the same neighborhood. You must have grown up with him, must know of each other." Her eyes were desperate.

"You're wrong." But he was too quick with the denial, and he knew Vanessa heard it.

"I saw photos in the papers. You went to Joe's funeral," she persisted. "You flew back to New York for it. You were photographed with Tony and his family."

"Simple social formality. Joe's death and funeral sold newspapers. The paparazzi were out in force. Lots of people were photographed. Like I said – Tony is not his father. I knew Joe. Tony and I – we weren't friends."

For the briefest moment he forgot Vanessa and let himself be taken back to a squalid room in New York with resentment flaring in Tony's eyes as he faced Starsky down. "Whatever history we had wasn't good," Starsky said firmly.

He saw disappointment in her eyes as though she had just opened a gift box to find the present inside was not what she had expected. "I don't believe you. I know you were significant to the Durniak family – just like your father was."

His eyes narrowed. "What the hell do you know about it?"

"Ken talked about you so much. I know a lot more about you than you realize, David." She hesitated as if deciding what else to say. "You always mattered more to him than I ever did."

That had cost her. The Vanessa that he knew, the cold, selfish Vanessa would never willingly admit that she was second place to Starsky when it came to Hutch. She was showing how much she needed to sway him over.

His gut clenched as though she had just disclosed something that he only recognized emotionally for the first time.

_So close and yet always so far._

She was looking at him strangely. "You don't think I learned a lot about your life from Ken?"

"I don't believe Hutch would have shared that much with you. Of course, I don't doubt that you tried to find out." He looked thoughtful. "So this why you strung Hutch along for dinner? To pick his brains about me and the Durniak family?"

She shruggedand he knew she would never admit that Hutch had not shared details of his life with her. "I've researched Tony Durniak and his dead father well enough to find a connection between the two of you, no matter what you're trying to deny now."

"Have you been paying for information in New York?" He already suspected she had been.

Her expression said it all. "Jake, not me. He has a lead in the NYPD. You were our only real hope of getting out of this mess."

Starsky shook his head. "Then your friend. Jake, is a stupid bastard. The only information he needs to know I'd have given you both for free. Your friend doesn't need to pay an inside cop to tell him that Tony Durniak will kill him. You two have taken Durniak's mother load – he'll track you down one way or the other."

"Not if you help us," she said, her voice strangled. "I know you've never liked me, but I hoped that for Ken's sake you would – "

"What? Wipe your slate clean? You've made an enemy of the Mob, Vanessa. You have to go to the police – lay it on the table. Hand over the meth, hand over Jake, and plead your case with them for protection. They might be favorable since you'll be giving them a portion of Durniak's dirty business on a platter." He pulled at her forearm insistently, needing to drive home the point. "There's really no other way out of this for you."

"NO!" She backed away from him. "No way will I destroy my life by taking this to the cops. They'll only use me; they can't stop Durniak from getting to me. But you could. I know you could! Why won't you help me?"

He almost laughed. "I'm a cop, not a mobster, Vanessa."

"You're not just a cop – you have a past." Her tone was accusatory.

"Regardless of where I've come from and who I was, I'm a cop now."

"If you won't help me, I'll have to run. Ken will never know what happened to me – and if I do die, it'll be on your head because you refused to help me."

"I'm not Hutch, Vanessa. When it comes to you, I have objectivity."

"Ken would hate to hear the way you're treating me." The petulance in her voice sickened him.

"Oh honey, that is_ so_ not going to work with me." He half laughed as he shook his head at her. "Remember this is me you're talking to, not Hutch."

He pulled his cell from his pocket and brought up the contact screen. Holding it up, he offered it to her. "Here. Why don't you call him? Let's bring him over. You can tell him all about how I'm treating you."

She all but recoiled from the phone. "NO!"

"No? I think yes," Starsky pressed. "I'm not happy about this secret meeting anyway. I don't like keeping the truth from him. It's not how Hutch and I work, not who we are."

"He doesn't need to know. I – " she seemed to be grasping for the words. "I'm worried enough about how all of this will affect him."

He wasn't surprised at her attempt to fabricate concern for her ex-husband and he felt his jaw hardening at her deceit. "Yeah, I'm sure you're losing sleep over that."

"Look David –"

"No, you look, Vanessa. You haven't changed one single bit. You're still as selfish as ever. Now your greediness and scheming has landed you in trouble. So, you've blown back into Hutch's life to dump the danger on his doorstep." He stepped closer to her as his voice rose in anger.

She lunged for him, striking out with her nails. They caught him across the top of his open-necked shirt. He felt the scratch run deep across his skin. Wide-eyed at her impulsive strike, she stepped back as though frightened he might retaliate physically.

He was strangling with indignant rage but kept his distance. "Ah, of course, the Vanessa specialty. You like doing that, don't you?" He touched the gouge and looked at the blood smeared on his fingers. "Do you know how many times I had to see scratches like this on Hutch's face and arms?" he demanded, his voice low and fierce. "You won't do that again. Not to me – not to Hutch. Not ever you understand?"

She was stepping back even further, her eyes round with fear from his threat, when the stillness between them was shattered. Starsky whirled at the crashing boom of breaking wood behind him.

His apartment door smashed open wide, banging against the wall with tremendous force, the jamb splintering and the walls around it vibrating with the jarring impact.

Two large men in dark clothes and ski masks waving semi-automatic weapons dominated the entrance to the room. Starsky pivoted and reached for his own gun automatically. His left hand came up empty. In his rush to prepare for his meeting with Vanessa, he'd shoved it in his closet when he came home without taking the time to secure it. Now, all he could do to protect Vanessa was shove her behind him. As the intruders kicked the broken door partly closed, they quickly entered the room.

Vanessa, crying out in shock, cowered behind him.

"Try to stay calm," he told her, holding her back behind him with one hand while he faced down the masked men. Their ski masks were well secured, one navy and the other black, their clothes nondescript dark and their feet in boots. Starsky noted their fine fitting black gloves.

The two intruders didn't speak; the one with the navy mask held his gun so he had a clean shot at either of them if they moved. Vanessa's earlier soft tears gave way to choked wet gasps. Starsky stepped sideways, putting himself in front of Vanessa, facing the navy-masked man directly. "It's alright, Van. Just stay quiet and say nothing."

The other one, the black-masked man, split off to search the apartment. As Starsky watched him move through the place, he could tell that he was not adept at his role. And the one pinning him and Vanessa had a stance that suggested he was nervous. Starsky was sure these were not seasoned pros, so not likely to be Durniak's hit men. Not that it made them any less dangerous. If spooked or threatened, they could be lethal. He wondered if they were the two buddies Vanessa's boyfriend had double-crossed.

The man with the black ski mask returned with Starsky's Beretta and holster in his hand and held it dangling from his finger like a trophy. "Pretty fancy piece you got here." He backed away, keeping his own gun leveled at Starsky before sliding Starsky's weapon onto the table behind him.

Starsky raised his hands as the semi automatic was jabbed toward him.

Behind him, Starsky could feel Vanessa trembling. He wondered if she recognized them, even masked, as Marco's buddies.

"You gonna tell us what this is all about?" Starsky asked.

"Shut up. Sit in this chair." Black mask shoved Starsky toward one of the dining room chairs.

Vanessa gasped when they were separated and tried to go toward him.

"You!" the navy-masked man said, pointing to her. "Stay where you are." He moved closer to her and grabbed her arm roughly. "So, Vanessa – where is it?"

That answered Starsky's question about whether the three of them knew each other.

Vanessa was falling apart, any traces of her usual bravado gone. She was rigid with fear. "Marco never gave it to me – never even told me where he stashed it."

"Bullshit!" black mask said. "We know you both had tickets to leave New York. As soon as we took care of him, you grabbed it and ran. You think that LA was far enough away for you to hide?"

"No, I wasn't trying to hide. I wasn't. I – I'm here to see my ex-husband," she stammered.

"How nice, a marital reunion," the black masked man said, turning toward Starsky and assuming he was the ex-husband. He turned his masked face back toward Vanessa. "Marco said you were married before – to a cop. So that explains the holster and gun."

Vanessa started to shake her head and splutter something to correct him, but Starsky quickly interrupted her, his voice now assuming more of an edge. "I didn't invite her, ya know. Every time she drops in, it reminds me why I divorced her in the first place."

The two men laughed at Starsky's derogatory slant at Vanessa.

Starsky could feel Vanessa's desperate eyes on him, not understanding what he was trying to do. He did his best to warn her with his eyes to play along. He had to keep these thugs away from Hutch.

"So – you're the cop she came running to with the meth? Guess she thought you'd be able to bury it deeper for her." Black Mask poked his gun at Starsky's shoulder.

"I told you, I don't have it," Vanessa insisted tearily. "I came to see Dav – ah – my husband for support because I was frightened of what Marco had gotten me into. I swear I don't know anything about where Marco stashed the meth."

The navy-masked man backhanded her in the face, dropping her to the floor. Black mask turned away from Starsky to see what had happened. With his attention diverted, Starsky leapt up, plowing into him, taking him by surprise. The suddenly blow forced the criminal to drop his gun. It skidded away on the floor as Starsky drove his fist into the startled man. Scrabbling on his knees, Starsky lunged for the gun, but was stopped when the bigger man kicked him hard in the chest. The blow drove Starsky back against the coffee table. His rib cage ached; he gagged on bile. Struggling to catch his breath, he felt the gun's cold barrel pushed against his throat.

Blinking tears of pain from his eyes, he tried to assess the situation. Vanessa was sobbing quietly on the floor; her nose was bleeding and her cheek red from the harsh blow to her face. The black masked man who Starsky had toppled was upright again, rubbing his lower gut and looking at Starsky like he wanted to kill him.

He was outraged – his eyes bulging as he pressed the barrel harder against Starsky's jugular. "One of you had better start talking. Where the fuck is the stuff? Spill it."

Leaving Starsky, he wrenched Vanessa up from the floor, his fist bunched in her hair. "We can leave her pretty face intact or, Mr. ex-husband, you can watch us beat her to pulp. She came here to get you to help her move the stuff. So you must know where it is. We're not leaving LA without it."

Before Starsky could come up with another move, Vanessa spoke up. "I never had it. Marco left it with Jake."

Starsky knew that he shouldn't have been shocked that she would sell out her friend so easily. Did she think she could actually succeed with this strategy? Did she really believe that she could bargain her way out of this?

"And who is Jake?" asked navy mask.

Starsky could hear genuine curiosity in his question. So, they hadn't done their homework. Green at their game. But green players could be dangerous – very dangerous.

"Marco's best friend," Vanessa choked out. "He and Marco stole the meth. I wasn't involved. He's back in New York. You think I'd fly over here with that much meth for God's sake? My – my husband knows nothing about where it is."

The two men looked at each other.

"Details," said black mask.

"His information is in my purse…let me get it for you. Please."

Navy mask plucked up her handbag and, holding the gun directly to her head, he pushed it roughly at her chest. "Get it."

With shaking hands, she pulled out a business card from her wallet. "Jacob Webster…his business contact is – please – please…" She handed it over to him, and watched him look at it before he slid it into his pocket. Starsky could see her chalky face beneath the blood. Something in the masked man's eyes had obviously alarmed her. With the man's back to him he couldn't know what she was staring at, but whatever it was, was scaring the hell out of her.

"Okay, Vanessa, you're coming back to New York with us and help us find this Jake and Durniak's meth." Navy mask smoothed down Vanessa's hair with one hand and kept his gun trained on her with the other.

"No, please! Just leave me here. Jake has it, I told you already. It's the truth!" She whirled around and cried to Starsky, "Don't let them take me!"

Starsky knew that once they located Jake and the meth, they'd kill both of them. Starsky saw Vanessa's frantic expression. She knew it, too.

She was crying in earnest now, her face streaked with mascara and blood. Her show of weakness made the man holding Starsky under gunpoint chuckle.

It was only a slim opportunity, but Starsky took it. He shoved his arm up, deflected the gun away from him while kicking out at black mask's legs. For a brief moment, Starsky had the upper hand, toppling his opponent to the floor. He rammed his knee hard into the man's chest. They were both struggling for the gun still clutched in his opponent's hand.

As he grappled physically on the floor, Starsky caught a peripheral view of Vanessa. She screamed, thrashing about wildly to pull away from the navy-masked man. Starsky saw her aim a wild kick at the man's groin. His bellowing howl rang out as he doubled over, clutching at his wounded balls. His gun clattered to the floor as he cursed and writhed in pain. Then, while Starsky focused on his own struggle, he heard Vanessa scuffle as she scrambled to her knees some distance away from him.

Then navy mask yelled, "Drop the gun, bitch! Now!"

Starsky frantically tried to pull away from the stranglehold black mask had on him, the gun still wedged between their bodies. He twisted violently under the grip of black mask trying to see Vanessa. Freeing his head enough to turn, he caught sight of her again. She was on her knees, sobbing and hugging a gun possessively to her chest as she aimed it toward her attacker. She was pointing it upward, directly into the gut of navy mask as he swayed above her still clutching one hand to his groin.

Navy mask yelled again. "Drop it, I said!" He kicked her in the chest. She careened to the side, the gun now loose in her hands. He threw himself at her.

"Vanessa DON'T!" Starsky called out at the same moment his grip on black mask's gun slid away. He went for the man's neck, but never made it.

A blinding blow to his head made him crash against black mask's body. Pain and light exploded all around him.

He started losing consciousness as nausea flooded him. Vanessa screamed again, the sound raw. Even as the room and the action receded, he heard the unmistakable sound of his own Beretta being fired at close range. Once and then a second time – the crack of gunfire echoed around him before crushing pain took everything away.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The pain in Starsky's head was familiar enough. He rolled his head gingerly and felt the brush of carpet fibers against his cheek and a light dampness.

Blood. His blood. From a scalp wound that had been busted open by a gun butt to the side of his head.

Oh yeah, he'd felt this pain before, more than once over the course of his career.

The fact that he couldn't remember details of the event concerned him until flashes and images started pouring into his brain.

Crying. Screaming. The sound of a gunshot. Gunshots.

As the memory took hold and the images became clearer, he gasped and closed his eyes. The smell of blood, metallic and cloying, filled the room. It was too strong to be just from the gash on his head.

Steeling himself against the pain, he rolled gently onto his side.

Vanessa lay close by. Her shining hair fanned out around her beautiful face; her graceful limbs were almost artistically arranged, like a ballerina who had dropped dramatically to the stage. Beneath her body, the carpet was heavy with fresh blood. The skin on her face was not yet mottled pink. The blood spilled all around her was still moist and glistening. So, she'd been killed only a short time ago. Sitting up slowly, his head spinning, he looked around as he began to remember what happened.

Turning his head further, he took in the damage done to the living room. His apartment had been ransacked. They must have searched for the meth before taking off.

Shifting his weight, he attempted to get to his knees. As he did, his hand brushed something hard and cold.

His Beretta. Equidistant between Vanessa's body and him, where the killers no doubt left it. She'd panicked; tried to run for it, so they shot her.

Hutch's ex-wife was dead on his living room floor, killed by his gun.

He had to call Hutch. Then, he'd call it in. But first he had to talk to Hutch.

Reaching into his coat pocket for his cell phone, he battled to stay upright as nausea and dizziness assailed him. Just as he wrapped his hand around his phone, pounding footsteps sounded at the damaged doorway and he jerked his head painfully toward the commotion. For the second time in the evening his apartment was being stormed. Two uniformed cops charged into the room, their weapons held in front of them. Santa Monica Police – not LAPD. He was outside of his own jurisdiction – outside of everything that was familiar and normal.

"Police. Get your hands in the air. Drop that phone, too. Now!"

Starsky did as they ordered, letting the cell fall to the rug as he slumped to one side, falling listlessly against the couch. For several seconds he feared he would lose consciousness again.

He recognized one of the two officers straight away and, despite his clouded head, his name came to him. Perez, a young Hispanic officer who had served some time in his and Hutch's precinct. Perez clearly remembered him, too. He could see his dawning recognition.

"Jesus, Sergeant Starsky!" Perez looked sideways at his partner. He moved in closer to where Starsky sat hunched against the couch. His gun out in front of him, his eyes swept across Vanessa's body to the gun lying beside it before scanning the apartment.

"It's just me here, Perez. And the victim. The men who trashed my place and killed her are long gone. They knocked me out cold."

Perez nodded but walked off anyway to do the sweep, stepping around Vanessa's body carefully, as Starsky knew he would. The cop he didn't know continued to cover him while Perez moved through his rooms. He was as pale as Perez was dark, his skin lightly freckled and his hair copper colored. He eyed Starsky with wariness.

When Perez came back and stood in front of Starsky, he nodded briefly at his partner and holstered his weapon. "All clear, though like Sergeant Starsky said, the place has been overturned."Perez looked at Starsky. "You're bleeding from a head wound. You don't look too good, Sergeant. We'll need to call the paramedics when we call this in." He turned to his partner "You want to do that, Cassidy?"

Cassidy nodded while re-holstering his weapon and walking to the side with his radio. Starsky heard him asking for a homicide team, crime lab, and medical examiner as well as the paramedics. The whole thing seemed surreal. Was he really crouched on the floor beside Hutch's dead ex-wife? Starsky thought of Hutch hearing about this through police channels, not through him. He wished he'd had a chance to call Hutch himself, but right now that wasn't possible. He doubted they would give him the chance.

Perez was watching him with concern. Crouching down on the floor beside Starsky, Perez asked, "What the hell happened here? We got called in for a domestic with gun shots."

Starsky touched his bleeding head gingerly, frowning with the effort of concentrating. Despite his confusion, he had to present something coherent. "I was with her," he motioned toward Vanessa's still body, "when two men in masks crashed in through the door. They were armed. We engaged, and they knocked me down." He raised his hand wearily to his still bleeding head wound. "One of them whacked me with his gun, the other tackled Vanessa with mine. I was barely conscious when they shot her with my weapon. I think – she grabbed it before…." He shook his head to clear it. "She - she panicked and tried to run. I – I couldn't stop her…" His voice faded out, his throat raspy with anguish.

He lowered his head against the couch, closing his eyes. "How long ago? When did the call come in?" he asked weakly.

"Ten minutes. We responded as soon as we got the call, but were a few blocks away and then had to locate the apartment." Perez scribbled notes on what Starsky had told him.

"That means I was out for at least five minutes."

Cassidy was briefly examining Vanessa's body while Perez wrote and looked about the room."These men you say that attacked you both? You knew them?"

"No. But I know who they might be…probably from…east coast. They were connected to – to Van – to the victim." He struggled to make sense of his own thoughts. He knew these first moments when cops entered a crime scene mattered. "She didn't know them personally, but knew what they wanted."

Cassidy raised his eyes and looked at Perez. Perez continued to take notes as he asked. "Your place has been turned over. What is it these men wanted?"

Despite his pounding head, Starsky knew he had to be careful with what he said without any legal representation. "I don't know all that much. Drugs – they were looking for a stolen stash of meth that Vanessa was somehow involved with back east." Starsky could see Perez's consternation. "I had nothing to do with any of it. First I knew of it was tonight."

From where he was crouched beside Starsky, he gave Vanessa's body a long look. "And the victim?" Perez asked. "You knew her? You said she was here with you when the intruders broke in."

Starsky's gaze went back to Vanessa. "Yeah, I know her. Her name's Vanessa Hutchinson."

Perez did a double take at the name.

"Yeah...she's Hutch's ex-wife. My partner's ex-wife," Starsky clarified for Cassidy.

A look passed between the two uniforms, and Starsky felt the air thicken with their unspoken thoughts.

Even as scrambled as his head was Starsky knew what those unspoken thoughts would be. Still he had no strength to correct their misconceptions.

Perez stood up and turned to Cassidy. He was obviously going to limit his questioning of Starsky beyond the initial summation. "No problems with the call in, Cassidy?"

"A homicide team is on the way. The crime lab team will be here soon. Paramedics as well. I gave the details to Communications and asked them to alert Sergeant Starsky's captain."

"I need to call…my partner." Starsky moved his hand to reach for his dropped phone.

"Sorry, I can't let you do that," Perez said. "Not until you talk to the attending officer from Homicide."

"I can't let –" Starsky sucked in a breath. "Hutch needs to hear this from me."

"Come on, Sergeant." Perez was gentle but insistent. "You know this is standard procedure. The victim is your partner's ex-wife. I can't allow you to talk to him at this point." Perez held out his hand for Starsky's phone, and Starsky slapped it into his palm.

He struggled to his feet only long enough to sink down onto to the couch. His rib might be busted, and his head hurt. His body was one indistinct blur of pain.

He thought of how Hutch would feel when he was told Vanessa was dead. And how he would feel when he learned that she was killed in his partner's apartment.

He thought of Hutch and how much he wanted to have him here beside him to make this living hell go away.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The quiet night was wearing on Hutch. He'd had enough of his own indecision. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell. He noted the time – well after ten. Late enough that Starsky should be finished with Lydia. His finger hovered over the keypad. Telling himself he was only checking on how things had gone for Starsky, he decided not to delay any further.

The phone buzzed several times before going to voice mail. Disappointed, Hutch tossed the phone on the coffee table and rubbed the back of his stiff neck.

He was ready for that beer now.


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed like hours that Starsky had been sitting slumped on the couch, waiting with the pain filling his head and clouding his sense of time and place. Of course, hours hadn't passed at all, only minutes. As a cop, he knew that once a homicide was called in things moved typically fast. Especially a homicide involving a cop. He struggled not to succumb to overwhelming fatigue and bone-aching pain. His head and ribs were screaming for something, anything to dull the throb.

In his far from lucid state, he felt uncertain of how much of the nightmarish scene around him were real and how much were a product of his own confused perception. Could he really be here beside Hutch's dead ex-wife? Been with her when she was murdered? Or was he the cop who had walked in to find her like this? Perhaps he really wasn't sitting here doubled over in pain, under police watch. Maybe he could stand up and walk around, walk outside – to find Hutch who was out there talking to the medical examiner and the forensic team. Maybe it was just a normal night shift on the job and his head was playing tricks on him.

The sound of a voice outside his apartment filtered in to him. He listened to the voice and caught some of the words. He looked sideways at the body, at Vanessa, and remembered all too clearly that he had not just found her like this, but had heard the shots that rammed into her chest, and the screams as she had faced death head on.

This was real – all too real. There was no Hutch outside waiting for him to join him as he always did to confer on the case. They weren't going to walk out of here together to let the forensic team wrap up the scene while they went back to the station to punch out the report before driving home together after another long tiring shift.

Tonight there was no 'together' for Starsky.

In this, he was alone.

Perez was walking around just outside the door of the apartment talking on his radio. He sounded agitated. The second officer, Cassidy, was still standing by Starsky, jotting down notes and looking over at Starsky occasionally.

Eventually Perez walked back in and came up to Starsky again. He looked more than a little harried. "How are you doing there, Sergeant?"

There was little purpose in telling Perez the truth. "I'm doing okay, Perez. There some sort of hold up with the paramedic team?"

Perez looked apologetic. "We've had word there'll be a delay in the Santa Monica Homicide team and the paramedics getting here. Apparently, there's been one hell of a pile up on Ocean Avenue – something to do with some shots having been fired between two vehicles – Traffic is at a standstill and all available units and paramedics have been called to the site. The two detectives let me know they will meet you at the hospital. They'll be tied up responding to this major pile up for the next hour or more. The Forensic Team will be here shortly and the Medical Examiner. I've spoken to the paramedic by phone, and he's satisfied that we can arrange to transfer you to the hospital by car."

The thought of getting away from Vanessa's body was welcome and any delay in being interrogated by the local crime team was okay by him.

"Sure. I'm fine to be transported. I'd rather not have them question me until I get something for this damn head. So we gonna head off now?" Starsky knew the drill only too well. Hadn't he been on the other side of this scenario countless times? Still none of that insider 'know how' helped at this point. It did nothing to stop him from feeling like he was floundering.

Perez looked even more uncomfortable. His gaze moved to his partner, Cassidy, and then toward the entrance of Starsky's apartment. "Umm…as you know, Sergeant, Internal Affairs from LAPD will need to be involved. Cassidy already flagged it with the team when he called it in."

Starsky nodded wearily. A cop with a dead body beside him, one with two bullets in it from his own weapon, would be more than enough to bring in IA. "I expected as much."

"Internal Affairs fielded the call from the Santa Monica Department about – ah – about you being involved in the case."

_Involved in the case. _Starsky almost smiled at the polite reframing. Well he was damn well involved, that was for sure.

"Well yeah, I'm sure they'll be lining up at the hospital, too. Maybe I ought to start assigning timeslots for the interviews. What'ya think, Perez?" His listless humor failed to bring any lightness to Perez's grave face, and he sensed that Perez had more to say.

"Ah – well, it seems that an IA lieutenant is already on his way here. He wants to ask you a few questions now - before we take you to the hospital."

Starsky felt the first flash of anger since he'd woken up from the blow to the head. The mention of IA always galled him. No amount of dread and anxiety about his situation could stop that automatic response.

_IA? Here already? Bad news travels fast. _

Before he had a chance to say another thing, Starsky looked up to see Lieutenant Roger Carlson walk in through his broken doorway. In his less than coherent state, he wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him or if it really was him. This was the man Lydia dumped him for. The man she had cheated on him with. Christ! The man he caught in bed with her. The sight of Carlson was just another shock to Starsky's already over-taxed system. Perez jerked around a little to stare at him when Starsky muttered loud enough for him to hear. "What in fuck's name is he doing here?"

Carlson said a word or two to Cassidy before crossing the living room toward Starsky. Middle height and overly muscled, his suit pulled in all the wrong places, its fluid lines lost on his robust frame. His dark brown hair was almost black and swept off his brow to highlight a face that was too broad and flat to be handsome. Dark brows that were almost feminine, and an accentuated square jawline added to the severity of his appearance. Eyes that were pale brown and flat added an animalistic quality to Carlson. It was the same impression Starsky got every time he looked at Carlson, a man he knew only vaguely but despised.

As Carlson's gaze zeroed in on him, Starsky stared back. Perez shuffled awkwardly, as if unsure of the reason for the tension.

Carlson walked up to Starsky and stood above him looking down from his vantage point. "Sergeant Starsky, do you understand why I am here? "

Starsky felt an overwhelming urge to spit in his face but quickly suppressed it. "I understand why IA is here, sure. Standard practice. What I don't understand, Carlson, is why the hell_ you_ are here."

"No?" Carlson raised his eyebrows. "I thought that would be obvious. The Santa Monica boys contacted us as soon as it was clear one of LAPD's men was implicated in a murder." His expression was neutral as his gaze swept over Vanessa's body.

"And you just happened to take the call when it came in?" Starsky forced himself to sit up higher fighting through the discomfort the effort caused him.

"Yes."

"Where's your partner, Carlson? You usually show up solo to crime scenes?" Starsky knew he was out of line but couldn't stop himself.

Carlson smiled coolly and refrained from responding to Starsky's jibe. "Sergeant, can you tell me briefly what happened here tonight?"

Starsky frowned at him. "I've already given Perez a statement. You want brief points? Two men made a forced entry. One of them shot and killed the victim. Like I said to Perez and Cassidy, she grabbed for my gun, struggled with one of them while I was tackling the other one. The gun went off as the other one pistol-whipped me, and then he must have shot her again. After that they trashed the place, looking for what they wanted and ran." Starsky got it all out and then sat back a little watching Carlson's face. "I'd prefer not to say anything else until I can get medical treatment for my injuries. And I'm gonna want legal representation before I answer any more questions."

"So these men killed the victim in front of you and then left you alive?" Carlson paused a moment, pursing his lips. "Sloppy of them, don't you think?"

"That's what went down." He knew better than to open his mouth about the way he felt about Carlson. "Did you go out of your way to take this case, maybe because of our personal history?" Starsky knew it was unlikely Carlson would satisfy him with a response, but he was unable to restrain himself from asking the IA lieutenant the provocative question.

"Sergeant Starsky, you should be more concerned about your personal history with the deceased." Carlson again looked at Vanessa's body. "You've been found at a crime scene, beside a dead woman. You got here all by yourself. I'm just the officer on duty."

Tired, Starsky slumped further into the chair. Bracing his arms across his aching chest, he tried to filter out Carlson's voice.

"I understand this is Hutchison's ex-wife." Carlson rubbed his hand along his jaw as he looked down at Vanessa's body and not at Starsky. "Were you two having an affair?"

Starsky battled to hold back the verbal attack he wanted to unleash on Carlson and said nothing.

"Did Hutchinson know you were with his ex-wife tonight?" Carlson asked blandly.

Starsky sighed remorsefully. "You can ask me that when my lawyer arrives. I'm ready to go to the hospital now. Unless, Lieutenant, you want to go up on charges for neglecting an injured witness at a crime scene." He couldn't help adding the more than subtle goad.

Despite Starsky's own internal battle to stay cool and collected, Carlson displayed no such difficulty. He stood looking calm and professional as he noted the scene, quietly measured up Starsky and managed to remain non-reactive to Starsky's undertone of resentment.

Starsky scrubbed at his face, feeling the bristle of his stubble caked with dried blood from his head wound. The physical evidence of his injury made him feel displaced. Tonight he was playing the other guy. Tonight he wasn't the cop who got to ask the questions. He was the victim, the suspect, who was expected to come up with the answers.

The experience of being the focus of the crime scene and not the one in control of it left him feeling alienated and depersonalized. Add to that his pain wracked body and the humiliation of being scrutinized by his current number one least favorite person on top of that and he was left feeling as impotent and disempowered as he had ever been.

He could see Carlson's eyes settling on his face and upper neck, noting physical signs of evidence. Still Carlson said nothing more, merely nodded at Starsky's request to not be questioned any further.

Starsky turned to Perez. "I want to go the hospital now. I'm in pain, and it's getting worse." He looked at Carlson. "Anything else you want to ask me will have to wait until I have legal representation."

"As you prefer, Sergeant." Carlson replied. "We can leave any further questioning until later."

Starsky eased himself to his feet, determined to walk away from Carlson unassisted. Perez moved toward him after saying a few words to Cassidy. Carlson pulled out his cell phone and moved away.

All Starsky wished for right now was something he knew he couldn't have: for Hutch to be sitting beside him telling him that everything was going to be okay.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

By midnight, Hutch was still wondering what Starsky might be doing with Lydia other than finalizing their brief relationship. When his door buzzer rang, he reached the intercom before the third ring sounded. Expecting it to be Starsky, he was surprised when the video image showed no Starsky but two other men.

"What the -?" He squinted. _What are Carlson and Simonetti doing here? _

"Sergeant Hutchinson?" Carlson said into the intercom. "It's Lieutenant Carlson and Detective Simonetti from Internal Affairs. We need to speak with you."

Hutch, already feeling adrenalin pour into his blood system, hit the buzzer and let them in. "I'm up the stairs to the left. Just give me a second to get some clothes on and I'll be with you." He quickly shrugged into a soft t-shirt and hastily pulled on his jeans, then opened his apartment door. As soon as he saw their expressions, he felt his stomach drop away.

_Oh God no, Starsky…_

Hutch saw something in Simonetti's face that he knew he'd worn on his own face so many times before. A look that said he was the bearer of news he would rather not have to carry.

Hutch thought his legs might not hold him up. He backed away from the door as they entered, leaning on the wall for some support "Is – is - ?" He couldn't get it out. "Something's happened to Starsky, hasn't it?"

"No, your partner is okay, Hutchinson," Simonetti said. "However, he is in the hospital, injured, but not seriously. He's been admitted for a possible concussion and wounds from a physical assault."

Hutch's relief at Simonetti's quick reassurance was short-lived. "What happened? You mean he was attacked? He was seeing someone tonight. Did it happen then?"

Simonetti spoke quietly but clearly. "Hutchinson, Starsky was involved in an incident in his apartment. According to his statement, two men broke into his apartment, attacked him, knocking him unconscious, and killed a woman who was there, then ransacked his place and fled."

"They killed Lydia?" Hutch said, shocked.

The two IA detectives looked at each in surprise.

"Lydia?" Simonetti asked.

"The woman Starsky was with this evening," Hutch clarified for them.

Simonetti again turned to Hutch. "I think you might want to sit down, Detective."

Hutch tried not to wince when Simonetti used such a clichéd phrase. What were they going to tell him? "I don't need to sit down. Just tell me what happened," he snapped back, unsettled by the unaccustomed role he felt placed in.

Simonetti sighed. "Detective, we regret to inform you that the woman killed in Starsky's apartment was your ex-wife, Vanessa Hutchinson. She was shot at point-blank range with Starsky's gun."

Hutch faltered where he stood. Of anything that they could have said, this was by far the most unexpected. Vanessa dead! Vanessa and Starsky?

"What in God's name are you talking about? Vanessa? No – No that can't be right. Why would she be at..." He shook his head at the men. "None of this is making sense."

Carlson gave Hutch a few moments to absorb this information. "Detective Hutchinson, can you tell us your whereabouts this evening?"

His question broke into Hutch's escalating anxiety. "My whereabouts? What's that got to do with what's happened to my ex-wife and my partner?"

Carlson said, "Standard procedure, Hutchinson. You know that."

Hutch nodded, understanding but still rattled. Of course it was standard procedure. Anyone related to the victim was automatically a suspect. He'd be doing the same thing if it were his case. Still he was surprised at how unready he was for the question. "Here – I was here all night, alone."

"Can anyone verify that? Your neighbors, maybe?" Carlson looked about the apartment. Hutch had left half-eaten food and a beer bottle beside it on the table, still half full.

"I was – I sent emails from my home computer. They'll be time stamped." Hutch's head was spinning.

"Detective Hutchinson." Carlson's voice pulled Hutch away from Simonetti's question. "Was your ex-wife seeing your partner?" The starkness of the unexpected question floored Hutch.

Hutch turned to face Carlson. "What are you talking about? Vanessa and Starsky?" He heard the indignant anger spring into his voice. "No, he wasn't 'seeing' her! She's only been in LA for a few days. She lives on the other side of the country."

"Your partner was with her tonight in his apartment," Carlson told him.

Hutch felt flummoxed. It was Lydia who was supposed to be with Starsky, not Vanessa. He had taken that call from her that morning in the squad room. Or had he? Did that mean that the whole story about taking the time to end it properly with Lydia was a fabrication? Why would Starsky lie to him about that? His head was reeling with turmoil.

Vanessa and Starsky? And now she was dead?

_Oh God, Starsk, what have you done? _

_You've never liked her, and always resented how she treated me – but – you wouldn't - _

Simonetti was talking to him, he realized. "We need you to identify your ex-wife, Hutch. We'll take you to the mortuary."

Hutch looked at Simonetti. "Mortuary?" Simonetti's request was sinking in. "Alright." His voice was level and he strived for calm. He pushed away his doubts about Starsky and Vanessa, aware that the two IA men were watching him more closely. He couldn't afford to let them see his reactions or his fears about what could have possibly gone on between his ex-wife and his partner. Once he got to see him, Hutch knew that Starsky would explain and make it clear.

"Does our captain know about this? Is he at the hospital with Starsky?" Hutch asked the men.

"Dobey will be informed," was all that Simonetti said.

Hutch nodded and quickly disappeared into his room to retrieve his shoes. He could hear the two men outside talking quietly. Taking a moment, he tried to prepare himself to face seeing Vanessa at the mortuary. He resented Carlson's presence, and knew it meant trouble for Starsky. Although he had no personal history with Carlson, out of loyalty to Starsky he harbored a degree of animosity toward him.

Back in the living room, he went to the closet to retrieve his holster. Neither of the two detectives said anything as he fastened his gun in place and snapped the holster closed.

"Would you tell me where they took Starsky? Which hospital? UCLA in Santa Monica?" Hutch asked as he pulled his jacket on over the holstered gun.

Hutch wasn't surprised to hear what Carlson said. "Hutchinson - your partner is a suspect in your wife's murder, and therefore is under police guard. You know, of course, that you won't be able to see him until his lawyer arrives and we talk to him."

Again, Hutch felt the unaccustomed sense of feeling the divide between professional understanding and emotional acceptance. Carlson's level statement caused a flare of anger in him that he knew better than to show.

"I'll want to be there when he's finished with the questioning. He _is_ my partner, Carlson. I'm sure you understand." He said it quietly but firmly, the unspoken antagonism concealed beneath his control. He could easily find out where Starsky was anyway, so was a little surprised by Lieutenant Carlson's avoidance.

Simonetti was waiting at the doorway and looked at Carlson before speaking. "They took him to Saint John's. UCLA was backed up with the trauma from some big traffic pile up earlier." Hutch didn't miss the quick sharp look Carlson shot at Simonetti when he said it.

Hutch nodded, grateful enough that Simonetti had made it easier for him, not that it would have been difficult to find out where he could find Starsky.

After he'd finished at the mortuary, he'd make his way straight to the hospital despite Carlson's cautioning. Eventually, one way or the other, he'd get to see Starsky and bring him home. And once they were alone, he'd get the real story.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The coroner's assistant pulled out the drawer and presented Vanessa's body. He looked at her face; her eyes closed and unseeing, her skin already waxy. Her face was lifeless but still beautiful.

Hutch's hand moved toward the sheet, carefully lifting the drape from Vanessa's shoulders. His hand wasn't quite steady as he looked at the two bullet holes. Hutch let the drape fall back. Then he stood looking at her face, storing away the memory. He touched her face, letting his fingers gently trail across her cool skin.

He turned and nodded at Simonetti who stood to the side. He didn't look at Carlson. "Yes. It's Vanessa – my ex-wife." It was all Hutch said before moving away from the body.

He turned on his heel and walked away. He was finished with the viewing.

Hutch made it to the corridor before he slumped against the tiled wall. Vanessa's death hurt. Even though he didn't feel about her the way he once had. Her loss still was a chunk out of his soul. She had been a big part of his life once – his whole life - once.

With some effort he straightened up again and headed toward the exit. The two IA men talked quietly behind him as they followed him out.

At the doorway, Simonetti called him. Hutch stopped and turned. "I'm sorry for your loss, Sergeant Hutchinson. The Santa Monica homicide investigators will be contacting Dobey about getting a statement from you. And we may have some further questions for you in the future."

Hutch held up his hand in acknowledgement and left the morgue, using his cell to call for a cab as he exited the building.

What had gone on between Van and Starsky? Why did Starsky say he was meeting with Lydia? He recalled the strained look on Starsky's face when he'd been on the phone in the squad room supposedly talking to Lydia. So, he had looked that way because he was talking to Vanessa? Is that why Starsky had cancelled their evening at Huggy's?

Concern for his partner's well being warred with his fear regarding why Starsky had kept him in the dark. They'd never gone behind each other's backs before, but Starsky had lied to him. That just wasn't Starsky – unless...

No. He pushed his doubt away quickly. Starsky couldn't abide Vanessa. Even if Vanessa had put the moves on Starsky in some sick way to try and hurt Hutch, he knew in his center that Starsky would never betray him in that way.

All he wanted now was to find his partner and get to the bottom of this. Once he could see Starsky, talk to him face to face, he'd find out what could have possibly happened in Starsky's apartment tonight that would have resulted in his partner's injuries and his ex-wife's death.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Dobey's familiar bulky form was the first thing Hutch saw when he rushed through the sliding doors of the Emergency Department. His Captain was huddled with a small knot of men outside the swing doors of the assessment bays. One uniform and two plainclothes men, whom Hutch knew instinctively would be the homicide detectives from the Santa Monica unit, were talking with him.

Dobey locked eyes with him as soon as he entered the open waiting area as though he had been expecting his arrival. Before Hutch had a chance to make a line toward the group, Dobey broke away from the men, intercepting Hutch before he reached them.

His Captain took a firm hold of his arm and directed him into a more secluded sitting area on the other side of the room.

Hutch was already impatient and restless and pulled against Dobey's hold.

"Where? Where is he -?" Hutch demanded, adeptly reversing the grip Dobey had on him and instead grabbing urgently at his Captain's forearm.

"In one of the exam bays, getting assessed. We need to talk."

"How bad are his injuries?" Hutch made no effort to sit when his captain directed him to the closest chair. His gut was clenched in apprehension with whatever Dobey might have to tell him.

Dobey had the details ready for him. "He took a solid crack to the side of the head with a gun butt. Some soft tissue damage to his abdomen and chest. Maybe a cracked rib from a hefty kicking. The main concern is possible concussion." Dobey pressed down hard on Hutch's shoulder. "He's going to be fine, Hutch. Nothing serious I'm sure. I spoke only briefly to the admitting doctor, but he didn't seem too worried."

It was enough to take away a little of the rock hard stiffness from Hutch's back and shoulders, and he sagged a little with the initial relief.

He nodded toward the two detectives who glanced his way now and then while they spoke together quietly. "Did you get anything more from them?" He heard the wildness in his voice and knew he was close to losing it. "What the hell has gone on?"

"I don't know the full story. I know you've spoken to Carlson and Simonetti so you probably know as much as I do, Hutch." Dobey watched his detective, as though still trying to assimilate the news.

"So, where is he now? Is he still down here in one of the exam bays, do you know?" he asked Dobey, his gaze wandering to the corridor that led to the treatment zones. He could feel his own restlessness mounting, his anxiety starting to bubble inside. Too many unknowns that might only be answered by seeing Starsky.

"All I know is that he's being examined, probably given something for his pain. Paramedics never made it to the scene – same reason as the Homicide Team. Perez from the Santa Monica Department – you remember Officer Perez? You and Starsky spent some time with him around last fall I think," Dobey interjected.

Hutch felt impatient, thought for a moment, pouting out his bottom lip in concentration and then nodded.

"Well Perez brought him in here himself. Said that Starsky was in bad shape after having waited nearly an hour with no pain relief. I only got to speak to Perez briefly as he'd been stationed to cover Starsky while the medical assessment takes place."

"Christ! An hour without any analgesia for his smacked head." The thought of Starsky suffering unnecessarily only added fuel to Hutch's already rising anger.

"It happens like that sometimes – you know that," Dobey said wearily. "Hell, most of time getting the stubborn fool to even let a paramedic near him is a major feat. How is this any different?"

"Its damn well different, that's why!" Hutch yelled and then immediately felt contrite at lashing out at his captain with such a senseless comeback.

"Sorry – I'm just – "Hutch ducked his head and walked over to the water cooler. With a head that was not quite steady, he filled a cup and threw it back. He repeated the process twice more before crushing the soft paper and tossing it into the basket.

Dobey was well used to his temper and waited for his detective to settle. "Hutch. Sit down and calm down; there's nothing you can do right now. You won't be allowed in to see him yet. Let me get us both a coffee, and we can talk."

Hutch begrudgingly took a chair as his captain took the other one across from him. He rubbed roughly at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose hard enough to make his eyes water. "I don't want any coffee. All I want to know is what in Christ's name has happened tonight."

Dobey nodded and leaned forward. Even at the late hour and ambient temperature he swiped at his sweating brow with his oversized handkerchief. Hutch knew his captain detested these hospital scenes as much as he and Starsky did – but this was a bedside vigil with a twist. Starsky had never been brought into hospital as a murder suspect before.

"Look, I only got the call about it myself after Starsky was brought here. The Homicide team hasn't even seen him yet – they have to wait until he gets a thorough medical clearance – check for concussion, confusion – you know the drill." Dobey looked across at the men. "The Homicide boys from Santa Monica never even made it to the crime scene when Starsky was still there. There was some big shit fest happening on Ocean – multi car pile up after some local gang shoot out."

"Maybe Homicide hasn't seen him yet, but Carlson already got to him at his apartment," Hutch spat out in disgust. "He and Simonetti told me that already. Carlson of all people! Jesus, Captain – "

"Yeah – I heard. Seems from what I learned from the attending officers he was pretty keen to be the IA officer in charge as soon as he heard what had happened."

"I bet he fuckin' was…"Hutch growled.

"Hutch – let's not worry about Carlson at this moment. I recommend putting whatever animosity you might have toward him to the side for now," Dobey advised. "I don't want anything to stand in the way of getting Starsky out of this mess."

"Alright. Fair enough," Hutch said, biting the inside of his cheek. He hoped the lawyer would sort it out soon enough once the relationship between Carlson and Starsky was brought to light. Starsky should be spared the angst of having Clare's lover handling the investigation. "So what do you know? Did the attending officers give you some background? IA said that Starsky and Van were together at his place?"

Hutch didn't miss that Dobey appeared taken aback by his query. "That's right."

"I just don't get it." Hutch shook his head. "He was meeting with a girlfriend tonight. He was trying to smooth things over with her –"

"Hutch," Dobey started slowly, as though he needed to impress reality upon his detective. "Starsky was with Vanessa when she was murdered, not whoever this other woman might have been. They were both in his apartment at the time." Dobey fixed him with his serious dark eyes. "Are you trying to tell me you knew nothing about Starsky and your ex-wife meeting tonight?" He asked the question with deliberate emphasis.

"I have no idea why he was with Vanessa." Hutch heard his own bewilderment and he felt almost treacherous admitting it, especially when he saw the reaction it caused in Dobey.

"But you knew that your ex-wife was here – here in LA?"

"Yes. She was back here because she was ill – needed treatment. I took her to the medical center." Hutch looked distant as he said it as though realizing how intangible it all sounded.

"Where had she been living?" Dobey asked.

"New York for the past two years at least."

"She couldn't get the medical treatment she needed in New York?" Dobey raised his heavy brow quizzically looking bemused.

Hutch realized how lame it sounded, and remembered Starsky's own early skepticism at her story. "Wanted to see me I suppose. At least, that's what I assumed when she showed up." Hutch said distractedly. He could no longer remain seated and stood up to pace. "Why? Who would kill Vanessa? Could it be connected with the murder case we're working on?"

Dobey narrowed his eyes at Hutch. "I didn't even know your ex-wife was back on the scene. I was the one who was going to ask you what the hell has been going on that might have led to Starsky being implicated in her murder?"

"Vanessa being back in town had nothing to do with Starsky. That I know for sure."

"Do you Hutch? And yet you had no knowledge of them being together tonight at Starsky's apartment."

"This is crazy! What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Hutch barked.

"Starsky's apartment was trashed – the assailants were looking for something," Dobey went on.

"I heard that."

"You have no idea of what they might have been looking for then?"

"At Starsky's place? God no!"

"So you had no concerns about any activities Vanessa might have been involved in that could have led to her being at risk of a homicide?"

"No – nothing. We only talked a couple of times. She was her usual self but evasive about her medical condition."

"And Starsky?" Dobey prompted.

"What about Starsky?" Hutch stopped his pacing and whirled around to glare at Dobey. "What are you asking me here?"

"Settle down, Hutchinson! You think no one else is going to ask you these questions?" Dobey snapped back at him. "What did your partner's involvement with your ex-wife amount to over the past days since she's been back?"

Hutch felt the confused anxiety rising in him again. "Except for one brief meeting at my apartment on the morning she arrived – nothing. He didn't buy the story of the illness." Hutch sighed. "When it comes to Van, Starsky doesn't buy – _didn't buy_, much at all. Starsky and Vanessa – well he didn't abide her all that much."

All too late, Hutch wished he could retract his disclosure to Dobey.

Dobey grunted and mopped again at his shiny brow and big broad cheeks. "I've already gathered that from snippets I've heard from the two of you over the years."

Hutch looked nonplussed. "I didn't even think you'd know about my marriage to any real extent."

Dobey gave him a wan smile. "It would probably surprise you, Hutchinson – but I was – I'm a detective, too, you know. I do pick up on details that at the time might seem irrelevant. Still – it's not exactly a positive for our boy, is it?"

"What?" Hutch looked initially strained and then angry. "You mean because he and Vanessa were never on friendly terms? You can't be serious?" Hutch felt strangely uneasy all of a sudden – unsure of his place with his own Captain.

"Again Hutch – pull your horns in. I'm not the one you need to convince here."

Hutch felt his unease increasing. "IA said she was shot by Starsky's Beretta," Hutch said. "How do they know that with certainty until the ballistic report comes back?"

"Starsky himself already stated he heard his gun going off before he blacked out."

"So someone tried to frame him?" Hutch thought out loud, frowning as he spoke.

"We have no idea of anything like that yet," Dobey said.

"Have you arranged legal representation for him yet?" Hutch asked.

God knows how Starsky must have felt when confronted with Lieutenant Carlson. Hutch hoped his partner had kept his cool and not said anything incriminating to him.

"I've got the Departmental Union Representative coming in. Jackson – Tanya Jackson. She should be here by now, in fact. Is probably in with Starsky now I would think."

Hutch's spirits rose marginally at the news. "She's a tough player. She won't let anything slip and will do her best by Starsky. She'll keep the Homicide boys in place if they push too hard at him."

It was impossible, he knew, but still Hutch wished he could be with Starsky while the two Santa Monica detectives questioned him.

Dobey was looking at him with worry. "Tough, isn't it? Being on the other side of the fence for once?"

Hutch rubbed at his temple. He was tired, confused, but still wary enough to close his mouth and hold his fears in. He kept seeing images and flashes of past incidences where Starsky had clashed openly with Vanessa. All the times in the last year of his troubled marriage when Starsky had risen up in indignant defense against the vitriol Vanessa threw at Hutch in liberal doses. Starsky resented her on so many levels for what he perceived she had done to Hutch. For some reason tonight, Starsky had decided to meet secretly with the woman who had always managed to antagonize him.

Now she was dead.

Until he could talk to Starsky, Hutch really didn't know what was safe to say. Even to Dobey who he could see was also looking troubled about how Starsky had wound up in this messy situation.

Lost in thoughts of the past and fears of the present, Hutch became aware of Dobey considering him with a heavy brow. He still hadn't answered his captain's last question.

"Tough? For me?" Hutch's mouth felt stretched tight with the strain of worry. "Imagine how it must feel for Starsky."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The waiting was interminable; each minute that passed added to Hutch's jaw grinding tension and irritability.

When the hell was he going to get to see Starsky? His own rising impatience was wearing Hutch down. Making do with pacing and vending machine coffee, he waited for Dobey to join him again. His captain had left to talk with the two Homicide cops and the female lawyer representing Starsky – the four of them huddled on the opposite side of the Emergency Room waiting area, but still within Hutch's full view. Not privy to the investigation involving Starsky, Hutch felt displaced at being excluded from any discussion that concerned his partner. His resentment left him edgy and ready to erupt.

Eventually the lawyer and the detectives exited; he knew they were headed to see Starsky. At the thought of Starsky being questioned by the two cops – even with his lawyer present - Hutch felt his neck grow stiff.

Then Dobey returned.

"So the doctor's cleared it for Homicide to question him?" Hutch's tone was resentful. "I thought they would have to wait until his medical state improved."

"He's only allowing them a few questions," Dobey said. "Starsky won't be ready to be seriously questioned until tomorrow. Tanya's in with them –she'll field the questions."

"I damn well hope she does." Hutch was tense. "And what about IA? Are they going to try to get to him again tonight as well?"

"Calm down, Hutch. No. The closest they'll get to Starsky before tomorrow is to his lawyer."

"Thank God for that. The last thing Starsky needs is another round with Carlson tonight. He shouldn't even have been permitted to get to him the first time."

The look Dobey gave him was wary and Hutch knew he was treading around him carefully. No doubt his captain was picking up on his thinning tolerance. "The two Santa Monica boys want to talk to you when they've finished with Starsky. Just a few minutes that's all. Some brief questions."

Hutch sighed. "When do I get to see Starsky, Cap'n? Can you clear it with them to let me in when they've finished with the both of us?"

"We'll see what they have to say after they talk to his lawyer. I suppose it depends on whether they think they've got enough basis to pin an arrest on him or not."

Hutch swallowed at the thought. He couldn't go there – couldn't allow himself to consider the complications and pain a formal arrest would cause for Starsky.

The Santa Monica cops were done quickly, Starsky's lawyer obviously doing her job.

Dobey eyed them as they approached. "You ready for this, Hutchinson?"

Hutch merely pressed his lips together in resignation. He wasn't ready for any of this. How could any of this be happening? Starsky shouldn't be segregated from him under police watch and he shouldn't be waiting for two cops to ask him about his ex-wife's murder.

Dobey stood. "I'll see if I can clear it with the doctor for you to have some time with Starsky." He stopped and fixed Hutch with a steely eye. "Try to keep your cool, okay? Antagonizing them won't protect your partner."

Hutch would have smiled if he weren't so tired. "Too late, Cap'n. My 'cool' left long ago. But – don't worry – " he added as an afterthought, "I'll keep it together as best as I can."

The two detectives moved together across the room. They were both in their mid forties and obviously seasoned cops. Hutch had already picked them as established partners. He only hoped their experience would go in Starsky's favor.

Hutch consoled himself by thinking that two solid cops could make short work of shaking out Starsky's innocence in Vanessa's death. That he himself had no clear idea of what Starsky's role in her death entailed was too frightening to think about.

As it turned out, their interview was brief, their manner courteous and their questioning direct. Hutch did his best to answer their questions. He had to admit again that he was ignorant of Starsky's secret meeting with Vanessa and how she might have been involved with him. He hated knowing he was in the dark about it and was in his apartment stewing over thoughts of Starsky and Lydia while his partner and his ex-wife were fighting for their lives in Starsky's home.

He accepted the usual advice to remain in the city, wishing he could ask them what they intended to do with Starsky. They wouldn't discuss Starsky's involvement with him, regardless of his status in the Department.

"Can I see my partner now if the Doc allows me in?" Hutch asked them. "I haven't laid eyes on him since he was brought in here and –"

The two cops looked at each other before the one who had introduced himself as O'Hanlon spoke. "We're aware of that, Detective, and your captain has already requested it. Officer Perez has been instructed to allow you in. We'll need to confer with your captain and the lawyer about arrangements once Sergeant Starsky is released from the hospital. Oh – and Detective Hutchinson, might I add our condolences on the death of your ex-wife. I understand how difficult this whole situation must be for you."

_Yeah – a murdered ex-wife and my partner and best friend as prime suspect. It sure doesn't get any more difficult than that…_

Hutch only nodded and walked away, his body taut. He'd never felt this much apprehension at the prospect of seeing Starsky.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Outside Starsky's exam room, Officer Perez acknowledged Dobey and Hutch and moved aside for them to enter.

Dobey stopped Hutch before he pushed open the door. "You go in by yourself. You need some time with him."

"Thanks, Captain. I appreciate it." Hutch wasn't sure what he needed from Starsky, this whole situation was new terrain for both of them.

Dobey looked like he understood Hutch's uncertainty. "The doctor says he can go home once they arrange for some pain meds and make sure his nausea has settled. I need to square up the paperwork from the treating doctor and arrange for his discharge into your care. Homicide and IA have agreed to allow him to go home with my assurance that he will be available for additional questioning tomorrow."

"So, no formal charges?" Hutch asked. Dobey hesitated a little too long, prompting Hutch to add. "No arrest?"

"No. Of course, he's suspended from duty – his gun is evidence, and he'll have to turn in his badge. Starsky's already been informed."

Hutch considered Starsky's situation. Life hadn't been easy for him since the Clare and Carlson debacle, but this evening's events had propelled Starsky's life from being rocky to treacherous.

"Go on in, son," Dobey said. "I'm sure he's as impatient to see you as you are to see him."

Finally, he was standing at the doorway of Starsky's exam room. His partner was still, lying flat on the narrow bed, dressed in one of those ridiculously flimsy gowns that Hutch knew Starsky abhorred. Suppressing a smile at the desperate hold Starsky had on the inadequately small cover sheet, Hutch could feel his partner's mortification at having to wear the get up.

At the sound of someone entering, Starsky turned his head quickly and Hutch got his first look at him. His normally olive complexion was chalky against the white pillow, and the bruising from the blow to his head was already beginning to mottle his temple and forehead. As Starsky realized Hutch was there, he scrabbled to pull himself into a sitting position. Before Hutch could get to him, he was upright, his arm bracing his middle to splint his tender ribs. "Hutch – Oh God. Finally…" he croaked out, his voice coarse with emotion.

"Whoa there – not so fast." Hutch made it to his side in time to stop Starsky from hitting the floor, his face bloodless.

"Ah – shit." He teetered toward Hutch, his legs giving out as Hutch seized him under the arms and managed to hold him up.

"Starsky! Jesus – what the hell are you trying to do? You're supposed to be on the bed, not beside it on the floor. Just relax, will you - " Hutch stilled his twisting movements, "and let me get you back in bed."

Hutch made short work of getting him horizontal, easing Starsky's head down and his body onto the bed. Starsky moaned and tried to roll onto his side. Hutch knew his partner well enough to recognize the imminent signs of Starsky about to be sick.

"Don't feel - so hot Hutch. Oh hell…I'm gonna – be –"

Holding Starsky with one arm, Hutch reached over to snatch a plastic kidney tray from the side table with the other. "It's okay, Starsky – Just let it go."

Starsky took a death grip on his partner's arm and fixed him with a stricken gaze that Hutch knew had more to do with his emotions than his physical state.

Hutch held him firmly while he watched his friend breathe deeply, swallowed back what was obviously a building wave of nausea. Hutch knew he was trying to win the battle against his churning stomach and as Starsky swallowed and breathed he found himself unconsciously breathing with him, willing the sensation to pass. He knew how much his partner detested vomiting and would do anything to circumvent it. He found a small hand towel on the table and quickly doused it with ice water from a small tray of cubes and used it to gently dab at Starsky's brow and clammy neck. He was rewarded when some color returned to Starsky's skin.

"Oh God, I hate that. There is nothing worse than that feeling. You know how I hate to spew, Hutch." Starsky moaned as Hutch was still patting his mouth with the damp cloth.

"I know you do, babe, so why don't you act like a good patient and lie still, hmmn? It's all the sudden movement that is causing the nausea."

"But I need – I need – to get up and talk to you, Hutch. When I saw you finally – I – well I've been waitin' and waitin' for you to come… I need to tell you what happened – Vanessa –" Starsky's normally confident voice sounded like a bewildered child's and it ripped at Hutch's insides. He didn't trust himself to give into his need to reach out and offer the comfort he so wanted to give. Instead, he lapsed into serious mode to hide his reactions.

"Have you been sick already? You know that's a sure sign of a serious concussion, Starsky."

Starsky shook his head. "Not sick – no. Only just now." He took a jagged breath. "There's so much I need to tell you, Hutch. Just let me sit up a little to – "

Despite Hutch's advice, Starsky gripped Hutch's shoulder, struggling to sit up. The look in Starsky's eyes – dark blue and storm-filled in his bruised and swollen face - was now too much for him to bear. Hutch cursed softly as he eased his hip onto the narrow bed. Unaware that he was even doing it, he reached out to release a curl of dark hair trapped beneath the bandage on Starsky's temple.

"God damn it, Starsky, you're a stubborn man." Hutch frowned in frustration. "I'm going to have to sit on you if you don't lie still. There's a nurse hovering outside, and if she gets one look at you like this, there's no way you'll be getting out of here tonight." With firm pressure, he pushed Starsky back against the pillows. "There – is that better?" Hutch was pleased to even more color returning to Starsky's face. "Is the nausea passing?"

Starsky's grip on his shoulder intensified and he fixed Hutch with an almost desperate stare. "Vanessa was shot, Hutch, with my fuckin' Beretta in my apartment. My own gun, for God's sake. I couldn't get to her…" He closed his eyes and forced out the words. " I'm sorry – sorry I couldn't save her Hutch."

"I know, Starsk. I know Vanessa is dead."

"You know?" For one wild moment, Starsky looked disoriented. As Hutch became concerned that he might have a significant concussion, Starsky shook his head as though to clear it. "Of course you'd know. That's why you're here."

"Starsky, I'm here to see you. Are you sure you're alright? How bad is the head – really?"

His questions were brushed off as once more Starsky looked frantic. "They would have gone to you after – he would have gone to you after he left me. Carlson? Did Carlson tell you?" Starsky's eyes grew dark with anger.

"Yes – Carlson and Simonetti, both of them. I thought when I saw them at my door…I thought they were going to tell me that you were seriously hurt – or dead." Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand transmitting the fear he'd felt and his relief that it had not come to pass.

"I should have been the one to tell you, but they wouldn't let me. I'm so sorry, Hutch. Van – killed in my own place and I couldn't even be the one to tell you." Starsky's hand patted at his partner's cheek, and Hutch brought his own hand up to cover it. "You okay, Hutch? It must have been such a shock to be told like that."

"Yeah – I'm okay, babe. Just thankful that you're in one piece – even if a bit beat up." Hutch touched Starsky's discolored temple.

"Hutch – I didn't have a chance to stop them. I would have stopped her dyin' if I could –" He cut off midsentence when a nurse entered the room and stood to the side, waiting. He sighed at the intrusion, and Hutch felt apologetic for her as she stood awkwardly watching them. They remained as they were, close to each other.

She looked unsure as she moved closer to the bed. "Can you excuse me for a moment? I need to do the last set of observations on Mr. Starsky now, and then the doctor wants to see you both."

Hutch nodded and moved off the bed. "Of course."

Starsky however made it clear he did not appreciate the interruption. "How many observations do I damn well need? I'm sure you only did those five minutes ago. I was talkin' to my partner." Starsky was not usually offhanded with the nursing staff and his irritated remark underscored how tense he was feeling.

"That's correct, Mr. Starsky – head injury observations need to be done very frequently," the nurse said.

"Starsky, just let the nurse do her job, will you? Just try to relax. We can talk later." Hutch stood off to the side and gave Starsky a small smile of encouragement, pleased to see him lay passive as she checked his pupils and blood pressure.

The nurse picked up the abandoned kidney dish on the bed. "Are you experiencing nausea, Mr. Starsky?"

Hutch jumped in before Starsky denied it. "He had a bit of it when I first came in. Has he been vomiting?" Hutch didn't miss Starsky's scowl.

"No, _he_ hasn't, and _he's_ here lookin' at you so why don't ya just ask me instead of her?" Starsky grouched.

The nurse threw a knowing grin at Hutch. He raised his brows back at her. "Just ignore him – he's never a happy patient."

The nurse smiled, relaxing in their company. "No, he has not been sick, and the tests have all been satisfactory. Apart from a nasty cut and some swelling near his hairline, he appears to be stable."

"There – ya see? I'm fine," Starsky said.

Voices at the door signaled the arrival of Dobey and the doctor, and Starsky threw up his hands at the second interruption. "Hutch, please, I need to tell you –"

"Later – you can tell me everything you need to later, Starsky. Just let the doctor tell us what he has to." Hutch understood his partner's impatience. He, too, wanted privacy so the two of them could talk this whole thing through.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

It took another thirty minutes to finalize the discharge. The doctor was satisfied that Starsky would have supervision for the next twenty-four hours, and Dobey would vouch for his detectives to be available the next day for questioning.

Starsky sat quietly during the discharge proceedings and accepted everything said to him with quiet reserve. By the time they were ready to leave, Hutch felt that his tired partner would have agreed to anything if it meant getting out of the place.

It was not much different for Hutch either. As Hutch pushed Starsky out to his beat-up car in a wheelchair, he wondered if they would find the energy to have the talk Starsky wanted. Hutch leaned down to him. "You ready to leave?"

"If it means gettin' out of here – I'd let you wheel me out on a hospital bed," Starsky said, summoning up a weak smile.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Settled into the passenger seat of Hutch's latest crummy Ford, Starsky found his last reserve of energy expended on the flyaway bucket seat which, despite whatever lever he cranked, still managed to drop backwards precariously into a sudden, sharp recline.

"Useless piece of shit. Can't even give me a break when I'm in an invalid state."

Hutch shrugged philosophically. "Tonight, that might work to your advantage. Put your head back and rest."

Starsky would have normally added that he had little choice in the matter, his seat angle already determined by the general decay of the car's moveable parts. Tonight he didn't.

Their combined mood was somewhere between somber and shell-shocked. Starsky knew Hutch wanted to hear all the details of his hellish night, but he also knew Hutch understood that he desperately needed a reprieve.

Silence, for now, was recuperative.

Tonight, home would be Venice Place for both of them, and Starsky looked forward to getting to their destination. His own ocean side apartment was, after all, a crime scene, soiled with blood and covered in forensic dusting powder. Violated, just as much as he felt violated by the messy drama of Vanessa's murder.

They made good time getting back to the familiar sandstone façade of Hutch's small apartment. It was so familiar that Starsky felt almost weepy by the time they climbed the stairs, like he was returning home after some drawn out jail sentence. Walking into the homely confines of Hutch plant-filled home, the guilt started to fall away from Starsky.

He was accepted here; he mattered here.

That was because this was where Hutch lived, and Hutch - out of everyone in the world - accepted him unconditionally.

For Hutch, Starsky knew, he would always be the good guy. No matter how much angst and rage and shit he threw around, Hutch knew who and what he was deep down.

Just as well, too, Starsky thought, because lately he was forgetting it himself. Lately, he was starting to believe his own bad press and he was getting sick of it. After the horror of the night he just had, he wanted to move on from all of the anger he harbored and projected onto the world since Clare had betrayed him.

They made it inside, weary and battle worn, and when Hutch closed the door, Starsky could not help but think he was closing the door on the world outside, sealing them both inside to the cocoon and safety of Hutch's domain. It was a poetic thought for him, and it wasn't like him. He wasn't prone to artful expression or fancy metaphors but right then, Starsky knew it was very close to how he really felt. After all, nothing about the last twenty-four hours had been typical for him anyway.

He stood in the middle of the room taking in the comfort of Hutch's small living space. He tried to find the words that he was so eager to get off his chest when he first saw Hutch back at the hospital. Now all the unspoken urgent words were stuck in his throat like small rough stones, abrasive and choking as though they really were rammed in his airways.

"The first mistake I made I was not tellin' you she wanted to see me –" he tried to begin, feeling pitifully inadequate with how it sounded.

Hutch walked a few steps away and shrugged out of his jacket. Away, not toward him and Starsky was suddenly unsure of what it meant, and even more unsure of himself.

"Hutch –"

"Are you up to a shower? I'll have something ready for you to eat when you get out," Hutch asked him as he folded his jacket with slow precise movements and draped it over the back of the kitchen chair.

Starsky waited a breath, thinking about what Hutch was doing and why. Making it easier for him, or at least thinking he was doing so. Transitioning him into the difficult part where they faced each other about what had gone on.

"Aren't we going –" Starsky tried again.

"Not yet. You're beat and need a shower to ease down."

"No, what I need is to talk to you."

"Shower then food – then we'll talk. Neither of us can sleep anyway."

Starsky closed his eyes against the determined strength that was Hutch. "This is our life, isn't it, Hutch? Always needin' each other to take the sharp edges away?"

"Yeah – this is our life, Starsk. Always getting hurt and hurting." Hutch's eyes shone with what Starsky suspected were probably the first real emotions he had allowed himself since he had learned Vanessa was dead. His words cut right into Starsky's heart.

Starsky held his hand out toward him. "I would never hurt you, you know that don't you? Whatever happened tonight – I never meant for anything like this to happen or for this to hurt you."

Hutch busied himself with hanging his gun and holster in the entry cupboard, his eyes anywhere but on Starsky's face. Starsky stood still. He couldn't move. Not until Hutch gave him some sign that he believed him. He felt like he'd damn well stand plastered to that very spot until he did.

"Hutch, tell me you know that there is nothing I'm keepin' from you."

And then the distance was closed and Hutch was beside him, his big hand a little shaky as it reached up to touch Starsky's mouth with his long fingers.

Unsure of what the action meant and still fearful of Hutch's emotional distance, Starsky felt his whole tired, aching body hum to the feel of those fingers.

"Ssshh. It's okay, Starsk," Hutch said, his voice molten with emotion, chasing away all Starsky's fears that he felt any degree of anger. "I just need time to catch up, that's all." He gave Starsky the sort of smile that always left him warmed all the way through before slowly disengaging those calloused fingers from Starsky's now parted lips. "I'll get you some food and fresh coffee."

Starsky wanted to say that he didn't want food and coffee – he just wanted Hutch not to take away his touch.

When the warm fingers lost the contact with his lips, Starsky was shocked at how bereft he felt. He was left with an inexplicable sense of loss so acute that even ten minutes under a steaming jet of hot water and a heavy dose of sensible rationale didn't take away.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Hutch pushed the plate with the uneaten sandwich he had prepared for Starsky to the side of the coffee table and surveyed his partner as he sagged against the couch. He was showered and dressed in old track pants of Hutch's and a faded t -shirt, which, Starsky suspected, may have well spent its early life in his own wardrobe. So much of their clothing wound up in each other's laundry baskets it was no longer possible to know who was who's. Not that it even mattered to either of them. Starsky fingered the soft fabric of the t-shirt, pulling it away from the raw skin of his battered chest, and then stopped suddenly when he realized Hutch was watching the movement of his hand on his own chest.

"Hurting?" Hutch's eyes trailed Starsky's hand as it settled to a stop on his chest.

"Some. Not too bad."

"Not hungry?" Hutch asked.

"Thought I was. Turned out I'm not." Starsky's tired half grin tried to lighten the heavy atmosphere. "Sides – my jaw and temple ache when I chew."

"I could make you some soup," Hutch offered, but didn't look like he could move off the couch, Starsky thought. He seemed almost as battle weary as Starsky felt.

"Nope. Nothin'. Just want to sit."

_Here with you where everything feels good and safe and…_

The gaze that was fixed on his chest was torn away and focused instead on his head, the soggy bandage long gone in the aftermath of Starsky's refusal not to wash his hair.

"That's some lump you've got on your head. You shouldn't have pounded it with water – you're lucky you didn't open up the cut again."

Starsky grimaced. "Can't stand dried blood in my hair. It's like shit on a blanket. Anyway it's not that deep so I think it'll heal up pretty fast. Thank Christ I didn't need sutures. Hate havin' those damn things in my skin."

"I'll drink to that," Hutch said. And he did, swirling around what must have been his fourth generous nip of scotch. His eyes tracked around the room and Starsky couldn't help but think he was looking a little lost in his own home.

By rights, Hutch should have been drunk by now, but didn't appear anywhere near it. Maybe, Starsky thought, that was because Hutch's denial was thick and resilient. It would take a lot of alcohol to get to the raw grief and shock beneath that, that Hutch hadn't seem inclined to go anywhere near while they'd been talking.

It was late, closer to morning than night, and even though Starsky knew they were both emotionally wrecked, he sensed they both felt reluctant to sleep. Neither of them seemed able to close out the terrible events of the evening, or, for that matter, let them in.

It was only by being this closely attentive to each other, aware and responsive to each other's mood and shifts in emotion, that they could cope with the reality of the night's horror. They had talked for more than two hours, close together, side by side on the couch, like they had done so many times in their long friendship. Starsky had poured out the memories of the evening, reliving the hell all over again as Hutch sat close, absorbing and buffeting much of Starsky pain.

Now Hutch seemed to have hit the wall, still and pensive as he withdrew into himself, crouched over his glass.

Starsky put his hand on Hutch's arm. "Hey there, Blondie, you've gone all quiet on me."

Hutch looked down into the amber splash of scotch remaining in his tumbler and rubbed at his drawn face. "I – I still can't believe she's dead, Starsky. I can't get it into my head. Tomorrow, life goes on – but – Van is no longer part of that life. You think I'd be used to it – and I am. Hell it's our whole life, death happens most days in our job one way or another…."

"This ain't work, Hutch, and Vanessa was not a job to you. She was a big part of your life."

"_Was_." Hutch centered on the single word before he threw the last dregs of scotch back. Starsky wondered if he was referring to the fact that she was now dead or her lack of involvement in his recent life. Either way it sounded sorrowful and empty.

He wondered if Hutch was going through the whole event all over again in his mind. Not so different to how it was for Starsky since he couldn't keep the brutality of Vanessa's death playing over and over in his aching head. Starsky could see Hutch's own distress etched deeply in the crease between his eyes, puckered with tension.

"The worst of it, Starsk, is that she died leaving me angry with her and – that's just so wrong. The entire last two years of our marriage I was angry at her, with her, and all the years in between. And since she came back the other night, if I'm being honest, I was still angry with her." He stopped and lifted his head. "It shouldn't have been like that. She came back here – she damn well should have come to me with all of this shit and laid all her troubles on me – not you. Greedy and selfish. Up until the very end. That was the Vanessa I knew, the Vanessa I was married to. Jesus – the woman never changed."

"We don't know the full story behind her relationship with this Marco guy." Starsky tried to take out a little of the heat in Hutch's vitriol. "Maybe it was real love and not the money from the drugs she was after." Not for a second did he really believe that, but it wouldn't hurt for Hutch to think it.

"That's hardly the case and you know it, Starsky. You knew Van as well if not better than I did when it came to her love of the better things in life. Still, even that's not why I'm so damn angry with her - you know?" He was looking at the wall, then he looked straight at Starsky and the pain in his blue eyes was illuminated by unshed tears. "It's what she did to you."

With each word the weight of his anguish seemed heavier on his shoulders, his self-reflection getting closer to the core of his emotions.

"Vanessa came to you, Starsky," he said, " to the closest person in my life, and brought this danger right to your door. She came back here to LA to corner _you_. She lied to me to get to you, all so she could try and use you. Dragging up your past for her own gain… Christ, Starsky, you should never have agreed to meet her. Van's always trouble – you should have told me she wanted to see you –"

"I've been through that already, Hutch." And he had, but he could see the ramifications of it all was crashing in on Hutch now that the alcohol had loosened his carefully constructed wall of denial. "I should never have agreed to meet her without your knowledge – but I did and I can't change that now. In some crazy, round about way of fucked up logic I thought that I could somehow stop what Vanessa was planning to do to you by agreeing to stand between the two of you. "

_Like I had always tried to stand between her and the pain she caused you. I hated her for that – I'm not apologizing for how she made me feel about her because of what she did to you._

"You know I suspected her illness act was a story. I thought I could get to the bottom of it – without you getting hurt anymore." Starsky added.

"You were right about what you said the other night, Starsk. I was always a complete sucker for her. But I knew this time – I knew she was lying. I just didn't want to tell you –"

"Yeah well we both screwed up. We should have admitted to each other that we didn't buy it, and confronted her with it. It could have changed everything."

"Maybe – though I doubt she would have told us the truth. God knows she rarely ever told me the truth. Even when she was in so much danger, she chose to take it to you, not me, her own ex-husband and a cop."

"Only because she thought I could help her. That I had these connections she thought would help to drag her out of the mess she was in. That's the only reason."

"And in doing that, she came so close to getting you killed with her. I – I almost hate her for that. You could have so easily been killed tonight, too. If you'd died because she – I wouldn't have even known why – never known for sure what had gone on with you and her tonight. How would that have left me feeling?"

"It didn't happen – for whatever luck was on my side this evening, I got to live, and thank Christ I did, because you know I could not stand to think of how it would have been for you to go through years never really knowing or understanding what happened." The next bit was not easy for him to say but he had wanted to say it all night. "I was just so worried that I couldn't get to talk to you and tell you my side of the story until so much later. All the time I had to wait until they let me see you, Hutch, I kept thinkin' you would have been feelin' that I had somehow betrayed your trust. I was sure Carlson would distort it all to make you doubt me." He watched Hutch carefully as he came clean with his admission.

"I'm not proud to admit it, but I can't deny it either, Hutch. I was more devastated about what you'd think of me being found with Vanessa dead, rather than her being dead." There – he'd said it. Not surprisingly, coming clean didn't lessen any of the pain he carried inside. "Shit – isn't that a terrible thing to have to own up to – to you, Hutch – about the woman you were once married to?"

Hutch didn't look like he was judging him in anyway.

"While we're doing confession," Hutch said, "when Carlson told me that Vanessa was dead – in your apartment, with you there, too – " he stammered, then stopped before looking Starsky in the eye. "Christ, Starsky, the fear was so strong that – well that, knowing how you felt about Vanessa – I was so terrified that she'd somehow pushed you into – "

"What a pair, hey?" Starsky shook his head with the hint of sad smile on his lips. "I was worried you'd think I'd betrayed you with Vanessa and you were thinking I was that damn pissed off with her that I might have killed her…."

Hutch's hand curled around his glass in a fierce grip.

"Hey, hey…." Starsky reached out, laying his hand over Hutch's clenched one. "Take it easy on that glass – we don't want to have to drive back to the emergency room to get your hand stitched up when you bust it to pieces. One casualty between us is more than enough for one night." Then he pulled back enough to lift Hutch's chin and get a clear look at his troubled eyes. "It's okay, you know, to let out some of that walled-up emotion – lower those stoic Hutchinson defenses."

Hutch swiped at his face with the heel of his hand and shrugged. "Thing is, Starsk, I don't even know how I really feel about it all. About Vanessa. It's all mixed up with my anger at what could have happened tonight – to you. What's going to happen to you now because of her death."

Starsky nodded in understanding. "I can't say I'm looking forward to what I'll be dragged through either because of her murder – but that aside, Hutch, Vanessa was your wife once. Allow yourself to feel some grief, not just resentment."

"I don't know, Starsk – I can't say what I feel about her being dead. There's shock – of course, there's that…but loss, a sense of loss? I'm not sure what I feel."

"Grief takes time, you know that."

Hutch looked uncertain. "Right up to the end, she was still making selfish choices, still knowing just how to hurt me the most."

"I don't think she was doing any of it to hurt you purposefully. She was just grasping around for solutions – desperate and scared. Fear makes people do that. Fear makes people selfish. Trust me – messing with Tony Durniak is enough to make anyone fearful and more than a little desperate."

Hutch sighed. "What a fool she was. She threw her lot in with some creep who could triple her money by pushing meth around New York."

"She paid a big price for that mess, Hutch. It got her killed."

"Yes, and no doubt her supposed friend in New York – the one she says was helping her – he'll probably end up dead very soon, too, once those guys track him down."

"Hutch, I've given some thought to that. This won't be the last of it. The guys who killed Vanessa won't stop looking for the meth. I don't think Van was telling the truth when she told them her friend in New York had it. If they can't find it, those boys will skew it so that we have Durniak on our tails."

"That's not our only problem, buddy. Lieutenant Carlson is out for your blood."

Starsky tried a small grin. "You know, I don't think Carlson likes me very much, Hutch."

Hutch choked back a snort. "It's the women you choose, pal. They got you into this mess. Clare specifically."

"You're right," his tone adamant and just a little teasing. "That's it for me, Hutch. No longer will women fuck me around."

Staggering a little as he stood, Hutch moved in closer, so close that Starsky could feel and smell the earthy peat of scotch on his moist breath. "Nah – I know what you need Starsk." He paused as though suddenly distracted by the closeness of his partner. His blue eyes deeply earnest and focused despite his inebriation, he brought his hand up to tug gently on Starsky's curls. "What you need, David Starsky, - is to stop fucking women."

Starsky felt Hutch's hand lingering in his hair, his blue eyes unwavering as they held Starsky's gaze for a drawn out moment, before he broke away with a small stumble. Lurching a little Hutch began fumbling clumsily with his shirt buttons, the scotch playing havoc with his co-ordination. Preoccupied with the mammoth task of getting his shirt off, Hutch was no longer looking at him and Starsky was oddly relieved. His face was acutely hot and he knew he was flushed with shock at what Hutch had just said.

"Solid, sound Hutchinson advice." Starsky smiled, trying to cover his flustered state. , "I'll make sure to take it on board, pal."

"Yeah, well – you do that, Starsk, because – because – well, that's what I wanted to tell you. You need to know it, and I – I needed to say it." He looked up again from his button fumbling and Starsky couldn't watch him anymore and smacked his big hands lightly out of the way while he finished the job himself.

Hutch scrunched up his face in thought. "There's probably a better an end to that sentence – it sorta came out all wrong, but right now I don't know what the better end is, so I'm going – to shut up. My mind has gone to sleep, which is where I need to be."

He stood very still, obviously attempting to look serious and in control before he summoned up something else to say. "And you – you – should be in bed. You're s'posed to be restin' that head. Don't forget; we have to meet with IA in only hours." He stabbed a finger at the air with paternal emphasis.

Starsky tried to look suitably put in his place with the advice. His partner was in 'care mode', albeit a slightly drunken one.

"So," Hutch turned around, as though looking for something he had misplaced. "I'm – I'm going to bed." He stared hard at the couch, his face solemn with concentration as though he was trying to solve a very complex problem.

This time Starsky could not help but smile. It had taken long enough, but Hutch had finally succumbed to the scotch. "What's wrong, Hutch? You lost something?"

"There's a problem with my bed," he slurred.

"What problem is that, buddy?"

"Umm - you're on it."

"That's right, I am. That's because it's my bed. You're not taking the couch in your own home, Hutch. Your back..."

"Your poor head." Hutch leaned in to him, patting at the dark curls like he would a small dog, his eyes misty and full of open affection.

"My head is okay. The drugs from the hospital are still working –"

"No - your poor head is busted, Starsk. You need your sleep or you'll be a mess tomorrow."

"Not nearly as much of a mess as I think you're gonna be, babe." Starsky chuckled and moved to steady him as he listed a little too far to the side.

Hutch was making a sound that started out as a weak giggle and became a yawn. "You'd better move or I'm goin' to – to fall asleep on top of you. And, Starsky, I use 'fall' here lit - literally…not –" he tugged ineffectually at the shirt that refused to leave his shoulder and arm, "not the other word, which I can't think of now either. Can't seem to think of anything right."

"Yeah, I can see that." Starsky made short work of freeing him of the shirt just as Hutch tilted precariously toward the couch and tried to lever himself down. Starsky caught him around the waist as he swayed again. Somehow, between the two of them, they managed to get his body onto the cushions so he didn't topple to the floor. With a little more rearranging, Starsky felt satisfied that the long limbed body was as comfortable as he could hope to be on the couch.

With Hutch down for the count, Starsky turned off the lamps and took the plates and glasses to the kitchen. He closed the shutters against the light that would soon be filling the small apartment and took himself off to Hutch's bed in the studio alcove. Knowing that his exhausted body was crying out for sleep, he willed himself to sink down into oblivion. Oblivion that would be short lived, he knew, when waking would bring back all the memories of the horror filled night.

Yet, his mind refused to close down, and so he shut his eyes hard against the first rays of the early grey light and allowed himself to revisit what was in the back of his mind. He went back to what Hutch had said – or rather hadn't said - when he was reflecting on Starsky's declaration to stop allowing women to fuck him around.

"_What you need, David Starsky - is to stop fucking women."_

Was it the alcohol or had Hutch intentionally omitted the last word "around" to that piece of advice?

All at once hot, constricted and suffocated by the bedcovers, he wrestled them away from his body, sighing with the frustration of chasing sleep that should have taken him as soon as he'd laid down. Careful of his sore ribs, he rolled onto his side and stared out across the half lit room. When his eyes adjusted, he could make out the top of Hutch's head atop the armrest of the couch, the fair hair a ghostly shimmer in the half darkness.

He thought more about Hutch's words and the intent behind them before he gave himself a mental shove.

_Jesus, Starsky, you've just escaped death, become the subject of a murder investigation, and been placed on suspension, and what is it that is keeping you awake and taking up all of your thoughts? Trying to figure out the drunken ramblings of your best friend?_

_How pathetic is that? What the hell is that all about?_

He shouldn't have asked himself the question because he'd known the answer for a while now.

With his eyes fixed on the muss of silvery hair, he succumbed to sleep.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

"What the hell is this? Look at the damn time will you!" Hutch jabbed at his watch and threw the irritated question into the already thick air of Dobey's office.

Starsky could see that his Captain already looked stressed, the ubiquitous oversized handkerchief suddenly reappearing in his hand. "I can read the time as well as you can Hutchinson."

"He's making Starsky wait. I just know it."

"Who?" Dobey swiped at his damp face with the cloth.

"Carlson of course!" Hutch yelled and Starsky winced, knowing how much the effort must have sent shockwaves through his partner's sore head.

"IA can't do anything until the union rep shows up anyway and he's still not here." Dobey said.

"Damn it, Carlson's probably getting a kick out of letting him stew." Hutch insisted, as though he hadn't even heard his Captain's response. His blue eyes, shot with blood and bleary in the bright morning light of the office still managed to transmit anger even though Starsky knew it wasn't their Captain that Hutch wanted to rip apart.

"It's okay Hutch. I'm not stewin'." Starsky attempted to placate him, even just a little. One look at his haggard, red –eyed partner gave him little hope of accomplishing his task. Hutch was out for blood and to make matters worse he was functioning on limited physical reserves, the signs of his late night drinking session clearly evident in his face and movements.

"Well I sure as hell am!" He shouted it so loudly that Starsky thought the whole floor of the precinct would know for certain how Hutch was feeling at that very moment.

Hutch looked livid. Livid, but peaky at the same time Starsky thought. Livid, peaky and generally pretty awful. As Starsky had anticipated, Hutch was worse for wear, fighting back what was obviously a blinding headache and a roiling stomach. The two of them made a great team, he with his bruised and swollen temple and Hutch with his noticeable mother of hangovers.

They'd got no real sleep to speak of, stumbling around each other in the mid morning hours to shower and swallow coffee before heading into their own precinct to meet with the Homicide team from the Santa Monica Department. It had been arranged that the interviews would take place in the LA precinct as Starsky needed to also be questioned by IA and formalize his suspension for the duration of the investigation.

"Calm down Hutchinson. Going on the attack is not advisable. Starsky's in an invidious position and you blowing up is not going to help him."

"I just want Carlson out of the picture. He shouldn't be on the case and you know it Cap'n. Now he's getting a second go at you. Your lawyer should have made sure he was already taken off the investigation."

"Look, if I was to consider all the personal issues and all the history that fellow cops might or could have between each other in this precinct or the department as a whole, I would be hard pushed to find any of my men to take on an investigation involving a fellow cop. Everyone's got personal intersections with everyone else when you all work under the same roof and in a job as tough as this one. Starsky and Carlson are no different if they are from different departments."

"With all respect Cap'n that's bullshit! This is more than just a 'personal intersection'. "

"Hutch –" Starsky began to break in.

"No Starsky," Hutch brushed his warning off, "you know how it is between the two of you and the Captain needs to know that too. As soon as Carlson shows his face this morning, I'll be making the point very clear. "

"It is not up to you to set the rules here Hutchinson. Those issues are not in your control. You should know that you won't be privy to the interview anyway. Just the Union Rep and myself." Dobey reminded Hutch and then frowned at the filthy look he got in response. It was clear, Starsky thought, that their captain could read Hutch's barely contained aggression. "Besides, you should be at home sleeping it off – you look rough. I don't know out of the two of you who looks worse."

The captain surveyed them both with a heavy critical eye as he swivelled on his chair, his bulky mass wedged firmly between the armrests like it might require an engineering feat to extract him from its confines.

"He's right Hutch." Starsky offered, attempting to mollify his bad tempered partner and his offended Captain at the same time.

"And I might have gotten some sleep too if we weren't dragged in here for this meeting. We get here at record time and find that we are sitting on our exhausted asses waiting for the bastard to show!" Hutch jabbed his finger in Dobey's direction.

Starsky put out his hand to stop Hutch in whatever else he was about to come back with to Dobey. Hutch's mood was simmering to the boil and if he weren't diffused by diversion he would explode.

Dobey leaned forward to check his desk phone message screen and made a sound of dissatisfaction. "I'm going upstairs to see what's holding Carlson and Simonetti up. Wait here and don't leave. Hutchinson, it's your job to make sure your partner with the bottomless stomach doesn't decide to make any trips to the cafeteria. I want you ready and waiting when I get back, you hear me? I don't want IA to have anything else on you to bitch about."

Starsky wanted to tell the Captain not to worry. The prospect of what lay ahead with Carlson and IA removed all traces of any appetite he might normally have.

As Dobey closed the door behind him, Hutch rubbed at his brow and scowled at Starsky.

"You may as well cut your little side show act – he's gone."

"What act?"

"I mean the act Starsky, where you try to pull me back with your lame attempts to lighten the situation. Like you think I'm about to lose it because I'm in some fragile sort of mood."

"Well you were givin' Dobey a hard time. He didn't put me here ya know?" The caliber of Starsky's voice changed to a more serious note, now that his attempts to divert Hutch had fallen flat.

"I'm just generally pissed at the way this whole thing has been handled so far…with Carlson and all. As if Simonetti wasn't bad enough." Hutch rubbed at his chest like he always did when his nerves were getting to him. "And here you are acting as though you're _not_ sitting here waiting for a freaking inquisition. Like you're _not_ worried about what Carlson might be setting you up for?"

"Because you Blondie are worried and angry enough for the two of us. Ain't gonna do me much good if you slam your fist into Carlson when he walks through that door. I'm trying, if you hadn't noticed to bring the furnace in you down a notch."

"I noticed." Hutch said looking a little paler with every moment, a grimace of discomfort on his face. "Anyway, the furnace is soon going to burn lower on its own accord. God I feel like death."

Seeing Hutch's contorted face Starsky stepped closer.

"Maybe I'd better hit the cafeteria after all – for you not me. You need something in your stomach Hutch." He really did look green around the gills, Starsky noted.

"Why did you let me do it - drink so much huh? You're supposed to be my back up. You knew I had to be here with you for these meetings. " Hutch groaned heavily and slid down so low in his chair that his butt was barely on the seat.

Starsky shrugged. "Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Anyway ya' seem to need it. It was one hell of a night to have to get through."

"Yeah well I sure don't need what it's left me with this morning. Damn…"

"Headache bad huh?"

"I've had worse I guess – just can't remember when at the moment."

"I told you to stay at home and get some more sleep. You wouldn't have got any hanging half off that crappy couch. You need a better couch Hutch."

"My bed is good quality. Paid more than two grand for that mattress for my back. Didn't do me much good last night though." Even though Hutch had his fingers laced over his eyes Starsky could see quite clearly that he was looking straight at him when he said it.

"Now wait a minute – wait one freakin' minute here. You were the one who went all gallant on me and insisted I take the bed because of my sore head."

And the banter was on – their own style of remedial therapy doing its job to soften the harsh reality of the situation at hand.

"And see – now we've both got sore heads." Hutch groaned.

"Yeah but your sore head is self inflicted. I got smacked with a hunk of gunmetal. Besides we both know the couch has nothing to do with it. Even if you'd found a fluffy white cloud to pass out on last night, you'd still look the way you look now."

"What does that mean? How do I look for God's sake?" Hutch summoned up the energy for an affronted look.

Starsky looked down at his feet. Hutch had asked him a question, but the answer was painfully raw for him to say out loud.

"Well? Come on?" Hutch demanded, holding on to his forehead like it was about to crack right open.

Starsky still didn't answer. The cut and thrust of their little battle had ceased as quickly as it had started. This time the banter routine wasn't going to be enough to pull them through the treachery of the moment.

Starsky suddenly stood up and walked to the window, his face averted from Hutch.

Hutch was up and next to him, concern taking the place of discomfort on his brow. "What is it? Hey…I can't look that bad can I?" His attempt to go back to their bantering fell flat.

"You look like someone who's found out his best buddy is the number one suspect in his ex-wife's murder." Starsky heard the rush of his admission, his voice flat and sad. "That's enough to make anyone look the way you do. Hutch, ya' haven't even – you didn't even – not once yet –" he battled with the words. "act like you're pissed with me about that. You let Dobey have it and yet ya' haven't said one word to me about how you must be feelin'…..toward me, about - "

"About what Starsky?"

"About me! About me being with Vanessa and Vanessa being murdered in front of me – and some goons rippin' my place apart for drugs. You should be damn well angry about that don't ya' think?" Starsky's voice had risen to a yell.

"Starsky." Hutch looked freshly appalled. "Is that what you think? That I'm holding in the anger, holding back my resentment at you? Why the hell should I be angry with you? "

Starsky saw the shocked emotion on his partner's face. "We went through this last night didn't we?" Hutch continued. "If I had any fears about what had gone on with you and Vanessa, they were over as soon as you told me what happened."

Starsky stayed silent, his posture stooped. Hutch looked more worried as the silence stretched out.

"Starsk? What is this about?"

"I'm thinking that whatever happens with Carlson, the IA or the Homicide team – none of it will matter to me as much as you being sure in yourself that everything I've told you about what happened last night – is the truth. I had nothin' to do with Vanessa's death Hutch and I had nothin' to do with why she came to LA – even if she came here to try and get me to help her. I can cope with the IA and I can even cope with a full on investigation by homicide, but – but what I can't cope with is you not believing me."

The hands that took Starsky's shoulders were almost painful in their insistent grip.

"I don't know where I must have gone wrong last night that I've left you in any doubt as to how I feel about all of this. All I can think is that I was so fucked up in the head at the news and the fear that you were seriously hurt, that I somehow failed to communicate clearly. Not for one moment after I saw your face in that hospital room, did I think that this was anything but a terrible nightmare that you were dragged unwillingly into." Hutch told him in soft but firm tones.

Starsky tried a smile. "You did communicate that Hutch – ya' did. It's just I feel so damn responsible somehow because it was me and it was in my apartment, and I kept our meeting from you."

"And I kept things from you too." Hutch admitted. "I've been thinking back to things Vanessa said to me, asked me, about you – it all makes sense now. If I hadn't been so damned closed off to seeing the truth about her yet again, I might have figured out she was sniffing around you for all the wrong reasons." It was Hutch's turn to look defeated by himself. "So – you see, you've got as much reason to be pissed off with me for that as I might have for you arranging to meet with Van in private. I damn well should have known, like you told me, that she was here, back in my life for all of the wrong reasons."

"Alright. Enough with each of us whipping ourselves over what is done. We can't change any of that now." Starsky said. "Still, you should've just stayed home. All that crap about them needin' to question you further…."

"You think I would let you deal with whatever Carlson has lined up for you this morning? No way."

"Like Dobey said Hutch, they ain't gonna let you be part of the interviews anyway. They play this by the rulebook all the way."

"Doesn't matter. I need to be here. There are some things I can start looking into myself. With the Santa Monica team covering the homicide there's nothing to stop me doing some groundwork of my own. I can start trying to get a grip on Van's life back east and this dead boyfriend of hers."

"Hutch," Starsky sighed softly, "the woman you were once married to has been murdered for Christ's Sake. You need some breathing space."

"Maybe I do, but that is why I'm standing right here." Hutch said, his voice falling to a softer pitch, all the angry tones replaced by gentler, more needy ones, which Starsky couldn't help but hear in the somber voice. "I do my best breathing when I'm around you." So redolent with emotion were the words that Starsky felt the soft caress of them against his neck as Hutch leaned in close, his partner's lips all but brushing his flesh as he spoke each word carefully and slowly. "Surely you know that by now Starsk?"

And there it was again for Starsky. That same overwhelming heat he felt when Hutch had touched his fingers to his lip last night. Now he felt the trail of those same long fingers across the nape of his neck, the touch feather light and evocative on his bare skin. He felt his skin burn with the tactile contact that conveyed so much more than reassurance and support. Any response Starsky might have made remained locked in his throat, and even his breathing felt constricted as he let the poignancy of the moment settle all around him.

"Starsk?"

Hutch pulled his hand back a little, enough for Starsky to know that his reticence had left his partner a little unsure. What did Hutch want him to say or do? He didn't have Hutch's smooth timbered way with words to reciprocate the intent and even though he knew that wasn't important to Hutch, he had no real idea of what he really wanted to say or do. All he knew was that Hutch was doing and saying things to him lately that left him wanting more of whatever it was that he was damn well saying, or not saying. The intensity of just how much he wanted more of whatever it was they were both hovering closer and closer to frightened and exhilarated him at the same time.

All at once Hutch reverted the caliber of his voice and put a little more distance between the two of them, providing Starsky with the time to recover from the escalated intimacy of the moment.

"Then you think we can take this on – whatever walks through that door? Two sore headed guys?" Hutch asked him, breaking the silence of the moment and restoring them both to safer ground.

"Depends on how much I let Simonetti get to me. You know he ain't my favorite IA pin up boy. And Carlson, well I can't promise anything there." Starsky answered, already missing Hutch's closeness but knowing the timing of it was all wrong for both of them.

"Simonetti you might just need to live with I'm afraid. Carlson? Well let's hope he's out of the picture before too long."

The sound of several male voices just on the other side of Dobey's door heralded their arrival.

Starsky turned back to face his partner.

"Let's see what they want to make of this. Then I've got to get through the interview with the Homicide team. Either way, I'm counting on walking out of here when it's finished. I don't fancy the thought of spending tonight in a holding cell."

Hutch flinched at the half joke.

"Starsky – don't. Don't even joke about it like that. There is no way in hell that –"

The door opened and whatever else they might have shared about their unrest about the forthcoming meeting remained unsaid.

Dobey walked in with Carlson and Simonetti behind him.

Simonetti, Starsky knew all too well. Better than he knew Carlson as Simonetti had been kicking around IA for a few years now. He and Starsky had clashed on more than one occasion and Starsky thought it unbelievable bad luck that he should pull not only his ex-lover's current bed partner but also the rigid Simonetti as the second IA officer on his case.

It couldn't have been worse for Starsky if it had been conspired that way.

Still Hutch had said that Simonetti had been remarkably civil to him the previous evening. Was that to redress the imbalance of his superior, Lieutenant Carlson being one of Starsky's all time least favorite people?

Starsky gave them both a considered look as he himself was treated to the same before he turned back to Hutch.

Their silent communication to each other was rich in mutual understanding.

He shrugged his shoulders lightly at Hutch and his mouth carried the ghost of a smile.

It gave him a little pleasure to know that both Carlson and Simonetti saw it pass between them and that their silent but meaningful form of private communication frustrated and disadvantaged both IA men – as it did so many others.

As each of them broke their gaze on the other, Starsky and Hutch both turned to face the music.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Dobey's unease had long surpassed its zenith by the time he re- entered his office, Carlson and Simonetti trailing in his wake. Feeling apprehensive about the forthcoming session between the IA and Starsky he was not at all surprised to find Hutchinson not only still in the room, but tightly flanking Starsky. It was more then apparent to him that Hutchinson was in full fledged protect mode, hovering close to Starsky and stepping forward quickly to put himself between the two IA men and his partner.

Carlson wasted no time in highlighting Hutchinson's presence to the Captain as he stood at the entrance of the doorway.

"Captain Dobey, I understood that this was to be a private interview with Sergeant Starsky. I'm afraid that Sergeant Hutchinson will need to leave the room before we might proceed."

Before Dobey had a chance to respond Hutch spoke up, his expression only just short of hostile.

"The interview can't start without the Rep being here. I'm just waiting with Starsky till he does."

"Of course." Carlson replied. "The union representative is on his way downstairs now. As the interview is about to commence I will have to ask that you leave the room Detective Hutchinson." Carlson looked at Dobey. "I am surprised that this has not already happened."

Again Hutch got in before Dobey had a chance to answer him.

"The same could be equally said of you Lieutenant." Hutch interjected. "I'm surprised that you have even been permitted to get to this point of the proceedings with this case considering your own personal history with Starsky." Hutch then turned to Dobey in exasperation and he began to feel like the meat in the proverbial sandwich. "Surely the scheduling of this morning's interview should have been vetoed out of principle of Lieutenant Carlson's relationship with Starsky?"

"This is just a standard procedural interview by IA, its not part of the formal homicide investigation - you know that Hutchinson." Dobey answered, feeling the tension in the air between the men mounting.

"Then let someone else do the administrative legwork – Officer Simonetti can handle the interview I am sure – or call in another senior to take Lieutenant Carlson's place." Hutch was stony faced as he stood impassive just in front of Starsky.

It was then that Simonetti spoke up, holding up his hand against whatever it was that Carlson was about to say. "I suggest we all settle down and take a moment," he said in a level voice, looking first at Carlson and then at Hutch and finally looking at Dobey. "Detective Hutchinson – in the interests of your partner I think it best that you leave the room. We will not start the interview until the union Rep is here."

Starsky touched Hutch lightly on the arm and the two turned to each other. Dobey watched as they gave shared a private non-verbal exchange.

"Give us a minute here will you please?" Starsky gently pulled Hutch to the corner of the room and Dobey made a show of coughing to clear his throat as the two of them spoke in quiet tones.

All though all the men could hear what Starsky was saying it was obvious that both Detective were shutting out the others.

Even at such a close distance it was difficult to discern the content of what was said between them but in a moment Hutch broke away and faced Dobey.

"Captain, I'd like you to do whatever is necessary to ensure this is the last time Lieutenant Carlson interviews Starsky in relation to my ex-wife's murder." Hutch looked directly at Carlson as he said it.

Dobey could see that Hutchinson's cool manner, one that was ostensibly polite and respectful was doing more to ruffle Carlson than if he had been out rightly hostile and inappropriate.

Dobey nodded and looked at the two IA men.

"This matter will need to be brought to the attention of the legal representative and our own Department heads. For now let's just get on with this. The Santa Monica team and Starsky's lawyer are already waiting."

With a lingering pat to Starsky's shoulder he prepared to leave the room. His next words were to Dobey.

"Cap'n can you make sure they call a halt to the interviews if his head starts to bother him? Its still not even twelve hours since he was concussed. Not that he's likely to tell you or anyone else."

Starsky shot him a withering look and looking a little mortified waved his hand in the direction of the door.

"I'm fine. Go on will ya' and get outta here?"

Dobey felt the reflexive pull of a smile at his two detective's customary antics, but he just as quickly quelled it when he met the serious faces of Carlson and Simonetti. He straightened up and offered everyone a seat. Good to his word, he mentally prepared himself for his role as Starsky's union representative finally entered the room as IA prepared to question him.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

After leaving Starsky, Hutch spent the first half hour after leaving Starsky at his desk pushing around files and skimming through his snitch list on his computer. His mind was only half on the task, less than even that, as he watched the clock and worried about how his partner might be faring with Carlson and Simonetti.

Eventually his now dull headache demanded a reprieve and against his better judgment he left to make a quick visit to the departmental cafeteria to collect fresh coffee and a sandwich.

Even though he was only gone ten minutes or so when he returned he realized that Dobey's office had been vacated and there was no sign of the IA officers, Dobey or Starsky.

He presumed then that the Homicide team was now having their first real serious interrogation interview with Starsky and his lawyer.

Shoving aside his paperwork he took his coffee in hand and picked up his desk phone with one hand and his hard copy rolodex with the other. There were at least five good snitches and street connections he could rely on for any real leads on what might have happened to fresh large parcels of meth being brought into the city in the past week. If he was lucky he might even manage to dig something up on the two heavies that had stormed into Starsky's apartment.

The other link he needed to follow up he was more tentative about. Tony Durniak was not so easy to get a handle on and with his main empire situated on the East Coast, local information on him and his ring was going to be harder to come by.

Still, he had the time now while Starsky was being questioned – the time and the incentive to uncover something, anything, that would mean his partner's name could be cleared of any charges that might arise from Vanessa's death or stolen drugs. The Santa Monica team would have already started chasing down the same avenues.

Dobey would not be happy if he found out his detective was rattling cages in the investigation, but Hutch had a vested interest in this case with his ex-wife dead and his partner and best friend sitting in the hot seat as the chief suspect.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

A couple of hours later he had come up with little of anything except to know for sure that Durniak had enough power and clout by means of fear mongering to keep him well buried in anonymity.

Calls he had made to the few outstanding acquaintances of Vanessa's that he still could track down also had nothing of note to tell him about her recent lifestyle and relationship with the now dead Marco. The homicide cops of course would get further as they would have seized her cell phone and handbag and would have access to all of her phone contacts and her recent calls.

His nerves were stretched, his head still heavy and his patience growing thinner by the minute when Dobey's office remained empty and his brief forays down the corridor to the interrogation rooms yielded no sign of either the captain or Starsky.

What the hell could they be doing with Starsky for this long for God's sake? Surely his lawyer would have put a stop to the interviews by now in light of Starsky only being discharged from medical care the night before.

Hutch was exiting the squad room to take another walk down to the interview rooms when Dobey rounded the corner of the corridor and headed toward the vending machine against the wall.

For the captain to hit up the junk machine so unguardedly in front of the eyes of other officers was a bad sign. Even when Hutch approached him Dobey didn't seemed perturbed that he had been caught in the act of roughly jamming in coins to secure his fix.

"That bad huh?" Hutch asked him, no lightness at in his inflection. If the interviews had left Dobey tense than how must it have been for Starsky?

Dobey only grunted as he bent down to pull out his second candy bar. " It's never an easy thing for me to see one of my men on the other side of the interview table. Particularly one of my best men," he said. "Any warm coffee left in the squad room to wash these down?"

"Well warm enough. Go into your office Cap'n and I'll bring you some in."

Shutting the door behind him Hutch found his captain staring out the window, one chubby hand rubbing at his lower back while he chewed furiously on the chocolate bar. Hutch handed over the tepid coffee and waited for Dobey to swallow some down, fighting hard to stop himself from demanding to know immediately what the score was with the homicide guys.

"Where is he?" he asked quietly trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. The urgency of needing to know everything all at once.

"He's finishing up with his lawyer."

"How is he?"

"Okay. He's doing okay. They gave him a break for about twenty minutes – for coffee and downtime."

"The interview – was it – tough on him?"

"You know your partner. He copes."

"Did he need to cope? Was it – did they give him a hard time?" Hutch was already feeling animosity against the two Detectives for the fact that they had strung out the interview for so long.

"No. No – I would say they were on the whole level and fair. Handled it well enough. Still – still they put him through his paces. Posed some pretty challenging questions. He managed well though – even without his lawyer's guidance. Never once did he let his mouth run off on him. You'd have been impressed." Dobey threw his candy wrapper into the wastebasket and gave Hutch the smallest grin. "I was worried he would. Starsky being Starsky."

Hutch had to allow his own small smile at that.

"Yep. Still Starsk knows this is no time for game playing. He's in up to his neck until we can get some scope on the men that killed Vanessa."

Dobey nodded as he settled into his chair behind the desk. "That's the truth Hutch. There's a lot of evidence already that there were intruders who ransacked the apartment and were involved in your ex-wife's murder – but on the other hand there is nothing so far to say that Starsky wasn't involved with them, Vanessa's death or this whole drug haul story. It's early days yet until they start to pull some other leads. Right now your partner is the prime focus as suspect."

"I've already started digging around," Hutch said. "You might as well hear it from me because the Santa Monica team will no doubt tell you when they get to look under some rocks I've already turned over this morning."

Dobey merely fixed him with a beady eye and a raised eyebrow.

"Can't say I'm surprised that you'd be already fleshing out leads. Still it won't go down well with Santa Monica, so be discreet."

"Surely I have a right to look into my ex-wife's affairs," he said, but Dobey looked unimpressed with his line.

"The two detectives mentioned that they may be requesting a second interview with you."

"I see." Hutch sighed.

"That's understandable Hutch. Normal under the circumstances." Dobey put in, as though Hutch had found exception with what he'd said.

"I didn't say it wasn't," and the shortness in his tone was quick and hard. The fact that he might be questioned again was hardly the issue.

"So Carlson is out? Can I count on you to make that happen?" Hutch said.

"Already done. Brass in IA already had wind of it and Starsky's lawyer followed it up with a phone call this morning."

Hutch cursed. "Then he shouldn't have been at the interview this morning!"

"Hutch, forget it. Carlson barely got to say much at all. After you left Simonetti took the floor, Carlson only got to make side commentary." Dobey said. "I can tell you though, even though I don't know the man all that well myself I've got the feeling he isn't too happy about being stonewalled out of the case so effectively. He couldn't see that there was a much of an issue of conflict of interest. I think that he has taken personal affront that you made such a issue out of it."

"That_ I_ made an issue? He slept with Starsky's current girlfriend for God's sake. Carlson knew Starsky was still very much in the picture when he took up with Clare and both of them knew how damn wounded and cut up Starsky was over it. He knew full well that Starsky hated him for what he did and I'm sure the feeling was mutual. " Hutch said. "Hardly makes for impartiality."

"Yeah well, now he's off the case – or knocked off the case, just be a little wary of him will you. Starsky doesn't need any more problems. Carlson has pull and cred around the Department. You and Starsky don't need him getting all vindictive on the two of you."

"I can handle Carlson." Hutch said simply, his mind already elsewhere. "You think I can head down to the rooms now and see if Starsky's ready to head home? Neither of us got any sleep last night – I'd like to make sure he gets out of here and gets some rest. I can get him home and come back in for a few more hours later on…."

Dobey gave a low grunt. "You need to ask me that? You lost your ex-wife last night in the worst set of circumstances. Now go home and get some time to yourself and look after that partner of yours in the process. He's on suspension for the foreseeable future and you can take a bit of time if you want too." Dobey jabbed toward the door as he spoke. "Besides – it'll put a stop to you doing your own detective work, treading all over the homicide team's turf. Now go – but stay contactable, that's an order. You know the drill."

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

"Quit your bitching will you? It's not going to kill you to ride in my car for a change." Hutch scowled as he directed Starsky bodily toward the parking bay where he'd left his car.

"I'm not bitchin' – well I am." Starsky corrected. "I just want her back. They got no right to hold my Mustang, as though she's some dirty piece of evidence. Jeez, Vanessa never went near my car or Ducati."

"Well not that we know of anyway." Hutch said thoughtfully.

Starsky continued to whine. "Putting their dirty finger marks and dusting powder all over her, scratching up the leather interior with their scrapers and brushes."

"Starsky – your Mustang is an inert object, stop personifying it will you."

"Person – a what? Jeez whatever that means I know it's an insult. Next you'll be sayin' the same about my Ducati. Where do they get off impounding my two vehicles?"

"You talk like you don't know how a typical crime scene is worked. I know it hurts when it becomes personal – but truly, Starsky, your car and motorcycle will be fine. And until the crime lab releases them you're stuck with driving with me."

"As if I haven't had a bad enough morning as it is –" he eyed off Hutch's decrepit car in the near distance. "now I have to be rattled to death by your crate of metal and springs."

"Oh for Christ Sake Starsky…if you don't stop complaining, I might just leave you here to find your own way home. " Hutch fumed. And with that Starsky knew that he might have pushed Hutch a little too hard with the dramatics about his car.

His tactics had been working fine to that point, effectively derailing Hutch's hovering over him about any possible fallout he might be feeling from the homicide interviews. Ever since Hutch had seized him by the arm outside of the interview room when he had parted ways with his lawyer, his partner had been almost overbearing with his need to make sure Starsky was in one piece mentally and physically following the three hour questioning session.

Hutch had not even waited to ask how it had all gone but instead, nodded brusquely to Starsky's lawyer while he dragged him bodily down the corridor and toward the lifts before anyone could interrupt them and hold up their departure. "Come on. I'm getting you out of here before someone else decides to question you. You look like shit and we're heading home. Dobey's given me the rest of the day off." Hutch spoke in a rush as he pulled them both toward the exit, fixing anyone who looked like they were going to speak to them with a look that stopped them in their tracks.

His partner was like this when he was hell bent on something. Nothing and no one would dare to stand in his way. All light blue glacial eyes and rock rigid jaw. No one would mess with him; even Starsky was intimidated in the earlier days with Hutch's silent menace.

Starsky decided it was best to back off with giving Hutch a hard time about his car. "You're right. It's not your car I'm pissed off with, it's just my way of venting, ya know that don't ya? As long as your car gets us outta here, that's all that matters. I don't want to have to even think let alone answer one more question. This whole thing this morning – it was almost surreal Hutch."

In an instant the frustration Hutch had shown about Starsky's attitude to his car was gone, his caring persona back in place as he slung his arm tightly around Starsky's shoulders. "I know babe. I know." Hutch soothed and he pulled him snug against his side as they continued toward the car.

The solidarity of their relationship, the singular strength and enduring support of Hutch was like a balm to the morning's grueling test and Starsky felt himself beginning to relax for the first time in hours. He was looking forward to crashing on the couch in Venice Place with Hutch and sharing some quiet time away from the reality of this whole nightmare. His incredible friendship with Hutch was always a haven from what the world wanted to throw at him and he felt sorry for others, so many others, who would never know the quality of such a kinship.

However like most things in life though as Starsky had learned, there was always something waiting in the wings to louse up good feelings.

When he caught sight of Carlson and Clare walking straight for them from the opposite side of the car park, Starsky almost laughed at the rotten bad timing of it all. Still he was determined not to let this little scenario take away his emerging feel good mood.

However as he felt Hutch stiffen into a slab of steel beside him, Starsky was not so sure Hutch was going to manage to be quite so philosophical.

"Can you fucking believe this?" Hutch growled beneath his breath as Clare and Carlson saw them too. The other couple faltered momentarily, passing a few words between them but then kept walking toward the doorway from where Starsky and Hutch had just emerged.

"Yep, I can," Starsky murmured back. "Someone up there has got it in for me." Almost eighteen months Carlson had been at the precinct and Starsky could not once recall laying eyes on him here in the garage. Now today, of all days, he materialized in front of him, with Clare at his side. Double whammy.

The universe was really heaping the shit on him today.

Maybe he and Hutch might have made it into the car without further incident. Starsky would never be sure whether Hutch might have been prepared to do that – he never got the chance to find out because Carlson chose to walk right up alongside of them both, Clare trailing a little behind.

"Leaving Starsky?" Carlson asked.

"Cops don't usually hang around precincts when they're on suspension Carlson." Starsky replied drily.

"I trust that you understand the importance of remaining in immediate contact and insuring you do not leave the city for any reason during your suspension?" Starsky could sense the change in the IA Lieutenant's attitude as soon as he addressed him. Gone was the smooth professional demeanor that he had shown to Starsky at the crime scene the previous night.

"Starsky's status is not your concern Carlson." Hutch narrowed his eyes at Carlson and turned to Starsky. "Sorry Starsky, I haven't had a chance to tell you the news. Lieutenant Carlson here is no longer assigned to the investigation are you Carlson?"

"It would appear you took care of arranging that Hutchinson didn't you?" Carlson parried.

Hutch shrugged. "It was obvious to everyone that you should never have been involved in the first place."

"No, only when you made your Captain paint an exaggerated picture about my personal connection to Starsky." Carlson said.

Starsky could see Clare tensing and she caught Carlson by the wrist. "Let's just go Matthew," she said, using his Christian name, "don't waste your time on trying to talk to them."

"I'd listen to your girlfriend Carlson. Best not to waste your time on us. After all we were just heading home. We're both off duty." Hutch told him.

Carlson shook off Clare's hand hand and turned back toward Hutch.

"Whether I am on the investigation or not, I will be kept abreast of the developments of the case. I am simply offering him the advice as a senior officer of Internal Affairs and you he would be wise to heed my warnings. Both of you will be required for further questioning and your movements and actions will be scrutinized."

"Wow!" Starsky gave a low whistle as though impressed. "You sure do take your job seriously Lieutenant. Taking your private time here in the garage to give us your professional advice. It's pretty neat of ya' to take the time to do that for us. Don't ya' agree Hutch?" Starsky turned and swept his arm from Hutch to Carlson. "Ain't it pretty neat of the good Lieutenant to explain the rules to us? And him being a _Senior Officer_ and all?" The smirk he leveled at Carlson found its way to Clare as well when he caught the open scowl on her face, clearly displaying her distaste at his behavior.

"Yeah. Really gracious of him Starsk. Not like we two Homicide dumb schmucks would know how a murder investigation works anyway." Hutch picked up Starsky's lead. "Tell you what Carlson. Since you've been so generous with your advice, here's some from me to you." He stepped nearer the IA Lieutenant. "Keep out of our faces and we'll keep out of yours." As he said it Hutch also looked at Clare. "Like I told your girlfriend here the other day, it's simple advice. Just stay clear of us – particularly Starsky."

"Why don't you save it, the two of you?" Clare retorted. "You think you can intimidate others with your tough united front. God! Why don't you both get over yourselves?" She told them. "Approaching Matthew like you just have and speaking to him like that!" Her voice shook with indignation.

"The way I remember it, the good Lieutenant here approached us." Starsky gave back to her.

"And like he said – he's just doing his job," she argued. "You might do well to listen to him David. You're going to need all the help you can get to walk away from this mess."

"Sounds to me like your boyfriend has been divulging case details in his private time. Not so professional after all are you Carlson?" Hutch said, the challenge rising in his words.

"Oh come on! You don't think the whole precinct knows what's gone on?" Clare's laugh was brittle. She looked at Starsky. "Getting involved with your own partner's ex wife for God's sake!" She pointed an accusatory finger at Starsky's shocked face. "The whole time we were together I felt there was something that was not right. Well now I know why. I always felt there was someone else, something else you wanted, for I knew it sure as hell wasn't me! So now I know the truth. God, am I lucky to have finished with you before I let you ruin my life as well as your own."

"Clare…." Starsky choked out, the single utterance of her name raw in his tight throat. More than the lashing bite of her false assumptions about Vanessa, it was her perception that he had never really wanted her – but had actually wanted something else, that hit him hard. The clarity of it, thrust in his face under the guise of her mistaken belief he was involved with Van, shocked him to the core. All that wasted anger on Clare, all that emotion – when even she knew the truth that he denied. It was true. He hadn't wanted her, but he hadn't had the courage to get what he really wanted either. When Clare had turned to Carlson it was convenient for him to hide his real feelings beneath anger and grief. It was just another way of keeping himself from admitting what he really longed to have.

Slowly now he turned his eyes to Hutch, mesmerized in the moment of dazzling self awareness, looking at his partner like he had never seen him before.

Taking in Starsky's shocked expression Hutch cursed savagely and Starsky knew that Hutch had misinterpreted his stark reaction to what Clare had said to him.

"Shut up now Clare. Just shut up." He warned in a low snarl before stealing another worried look at Starsky.

"Hard for you to hear the truth Hutchinson?" Carlson asked, making no move to restrain Clare at all. "Now I'm not saying whether or not you knew about your loyal friend's relationship with your ex. Hell, maybe you did. Maybe you were happy to share her with him. Given what we've all heard about the two of you over the years with your cavalier attitude to women, I suppose it's highly possible that- "

"You fuckin' asshole, Carlson!" Hutch started to lunge, but before he could, Starsky blocked him forcibly. "Is this what you wanted, Carlson! What you intended by approaching us?" Hutch ground out while Starsky never lessened his fierce hold on his partner, restraining him. "You wanted me to go for you, didn't you?" Starsky pushed Hutch back further as they both stared at Carlson's angry features.

Carlson squirmed. "Put it this way – it's what I expected. And you talk about me having a personal involvement in this investigation! Seems to me that you're the one with the personal involvement, Hutchinson. Covering for your partner every step of the way!"

"Hutch," Starsky said quietly as he held Hutch back. "You're playing into his hands. We've got enough to contend with here without rising to his cheap shots."

Starsky waited a moment and when Hutch finally relaxed, Starsky pulled his friend farther away with a measured calm that belied the urge to violence quivering in his own body. It was an effort to keep his own impulses to lash out at Carlson in check, but knew he had to diffuse Hutch quickly and effectively.

Hutch was breathing rapidly as he fought to gain control over his temper, and Starsky knew the had to leave the scene before any further fireworks erupted.

"Hutch, keys."

Hutch eventually stopped eyeballing Carlson and used the keys to unlock his car doors. He climbed into the driver's side. Starsky waited until his partner was inside the car, still tense and on edge. Starsky opened the passenger door, but walked back toward Carlson now that Hutch was inside the car.

Clare had moved over to Carlson, offering him her attention, but Carlson pushed her hands away, shaking, Starsky thought, with his own suppressed aggression and rattled pride.

"Next time you provoke my partner, I might not be there to stop him," Starsky said quietly. "Like you said – we cover for one another every step of the way, you'd do well to remember that."

Not bothering to see Carlson's reaction, Starsky slid into the passenger seat, barely managing to slam his door shut before Hutch gunned the car and screeched toward the garage exit.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH


End file.
